


Sea-Longing

by Anonymous



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Missing Scene, Multi, Platonic Relationships, Plot, Quests, Travel, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 38,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29614797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When Tuor and Idril sail into the West, Eärendil and Voronwë go seeking after them. Through disaster and ruin and by the light of the Silmaril, they finally find their way to Valinor - and to everlasting peace.Or: the account of Voronwë, son of Aranwë, concerning the disappearance of his spouses, his voyages with Eärendil, the sacking of the Havens of Sirion, and their eventual coming into the Uttermost West.
Relationships: Eärendil & Voronwë (Tolkien), Eärendil/Elwing (Tolkien), Idril Celebrindal/Tuor/Voronwë
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	1. Part One - Loss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Calantian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calantian/gifts).



> When I first saw this prompt, it instantly sent ideas spinning in my head. I thought, "Wow, I could write an epic-length fic for that prompt!" and...well... xD I have greatly enjoyed writing this fic, so thank you for giving such a great prompt! 
> 
> I have tried to meld together both what happens in the published Silmarillion and the plot points from Tolkien's various different plans for Eärendil's story, picking and choosing the parts I liked best. I have also played a little fast and loose with time, compressing it a little for my own purposes. Add in a hefty sprinkle of my own headcanons for things like Voronwë's backstory, and voilà! 
> 
> Enjoy!

_“Every parting gives a foretaste of death,_   
_Every reunion a hint of resurrection.”_

_Part One - Loss_

Long ago under the heavy willow-boughs of Nan-tathren, Tuor had made a song for his son; a song to relieve their heartache and grief, to remind them both of the good things that were still in the world. It was a song of the sea, whose rhythm thrummed like the constant wash of the waves, whose melody rose and fell like the surge and ebb of the tides. It was, many said, the seed Tuor planted in his son’s heart, a kernel that eventually grew and grew, spreading the sea-longing deep into the very marrow of Eärendil’s bones.

But if the song was the seed, it’s water and sunlight were the scent of salt in the air, the crunch of sand underfoot, and the ever-present, ever-changing rush of the waves; the rich soil from which it grew was nights watching the play of moonlight on the water in Sirion’s wide bay, and long days running hither and thither along the strand, arms outstretched and feeling as if he might take flight and join the seabirds wheeling overhead in the pale blue sky.

Voronwë knew Eärendil’s heart because in it he saw a reflection of himself. Once he too had fallen in love with the sea by the Mouths of Sirion, and the way they fell for her was in many ways exactly the same.

Well he remembered a beautiful day in midsummer, when the sky blazed overhead and the sand was golden and warm underfoot. Away in the dunes behind the beach he could hear Idril’s bright laugh; she had convinced Lady Galadriel to help her pick summer flowers from among the long grasses, so that they might weave them into crowns. Elwing, small and quiet as a shadow, at that time still looked at the world as if at any moment someone might jump out and strike her down - but when Idril laughed, the barest hint of a smile would appear on her face, too. She moved like a little mouse through the grasses, and all the flowers she picked were blue.

Beside him on the sand, Tuor had stretched out and, so far as he could tell, fallen asleep with his hat over his eyes. Eärendil played somewhere to his left, laughing in the surf; and Voronwë looked out to sea, listening to the waves, seeking the distant horizon with his eyes. Tuor had told him in those days that he was too sombre, much as he said the same now; but ever had Voronwë been plagued by a grim foreboding that would not let him rest easy, even in quiet, peaceful moments.

He had been shaken out of his dark thoughts by a small hand on his arm; Eärendil was clutching his sleeve. “Voronwë.”

The smile on his face pierced through Voronwë’s heavy mood like a well-placed arrow, and he could not help but mirror the expression. “What is it?”

“I found friends,” the boy said, tugging at his arm. Voronwë obediently rose and followed behind him, wondering what ‘friends’ the boy had found - last time it had been crabs, and before that an unusually friendly petrel.

Eärendil squatted down in the surf, and pointed. “Look.”

Voronwë mirrored him, peering into the rushing surf. Was it fish, perhaps, that had caught Eärendil’s attention?

For long moments nothing appeared - then all at once Voronwë thought he saw a face peeking out at him, a cheeky grin across their face. He started, almost falling backward, and when he looked again there was nothing.

“You scared her,” Eärendil admonished.

“Scared- who? Who is your friend?” Voronwë asked, a thrill of unease going through him that almost felt like fear.

Eärendil tilted his head. “You saw her. The ladies in the waves.” He grinned and pointed, “Look, there’s another one!”

Whipping his head around, Voronwë saw another face, its contours delineated by the flash of sunlight off the water, its teeth like a sparkling glimpse of a pearl on the ocean floor - and there another, with features formed of seaweed and long, flowing hair of pure-white foam. He heard bright, joyful laughter, gurgling and reverberating as if it came from deep under the water.

 _Spirits of sea and surf and foam_ , he thought, shivers running up his back. They were allies of Ulmo, detesting the Enemy’s foul darkness, but they were also fey and strange, not often appearing to Elven or mortal men. Voronwë looked to Eärendil, struck suddenly by a desire to pull him back to the safety of the beach; but neither he nor the sea-spirits would take kindly to that.

Instead, he made a gesture of respect to the nearest spirit he could see, a woman whose watery body formed and re-formed with each passing wave. She returned it, and he thought he saw her smile. “We welcome you,” he said quietly, “But please, be careful with this child; more than anything he loves the sea, but he cannot breathe underneath the water as you do.”

The woman nodded, and Voronwë’s unease was replaced by a flow of relief. These spirits were attendants of Ulmo, and would not let Eärendil come to any harm while he was in their care.

Eärendil beside him groused, “I wish I _could_ breathe under the water. Voronwë, do you not know a way?”

“You would be better asking your new friends,” Voronwë had said, ruffling a hand through his thick yellow hair.

For reasons unknown to him, that memory was in the forefront of his mind now many years later, as he stood alone at the end of the quay. It was late at night, and yet Voronwë found he could not sleep, his mind troubled by dark and disturbing dreams. The moon hanging in the sky above was full and bright, his light dappling across the calm water, each little wave limned by a sparkle of pure silver. All the world was quiet, save for the soft sigh of the sea; and yet Voronwë’s heart was not at peace.

Footsteps sounded on the boards behind him, and a voice close at hand called his name.

He turned as Tuor stepped up beside him, a soft frown on his brow and a question in his eyes. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, laying his hand on Voronwë’s shoulder.

“I could not sleep,” Voronwë said. “I thought the water might… calm my mind.”

Tuor gave him an assessing look. “It does not seem to have worked.”

“No,” Voronwë said, the word coming out as a gusty sigh.

Tuor narrowed his eyes and said, perceptive as ever, “The shadow that has always plagued you grows within your mind.”

“As the power of the Enemy grows day by day,” Voronwë confirmed. Seeing the concern on Tuor’s face, he said, “But there is little more I can do; I can only endure it.” He gave Tuor a soft smile. “Forgive me; I did not mean to worry you.”

Tuor sighed, and his hesitant hand came up to touch Voronwë’s cheek. “I am sorry. I know these days you must worry…”

“As does everyone.”

Tuor shook his head. “No; you and Idril specifically…” He sighed at the questioning tilt of Voronwë’s head. An attempt at a smile crossed his lips, though it held no humour. “I am no longer young, Voronwë. I grow more weak and frail with each passing year; every day brings me closer to death.”

Voronwë shook his head, closing his own hand around the one Tuor held to his cheek. “Do not say it.”

“How can I not? These last few months my thoughts have been consumed by it, even as your shadow plagues you. Ever in my mind I see the three of you, weeping with grief at my graveside, and I cannot drive the image from my head.” He closed his eyes and said, softer, “At times I wonder if I should ever have presumed to love you at all.”

“I would have had no one else,” Voronwë whispered. “And I will not regret it.”

“We have not yet parted,” Tuor said.

“Do you not think we knew it would come to this, Idril and I? The fates of our people are sundered; I knew from the moment I took your hand that you would be taken from me eventually.” Slowly, Voronwë took his hand and kissed it. “But there are many years yet left to us, Tuor.”

“The merest blink of an eye in the life of an elf,” Tuor said.

“Loving you, I have learnt to savour each moment.” Voronwë leant forward and pressed their foreheads together. “Do you not remember what you told me, all those years ago? In the King’s Hall before our meagre campfire?”

A tiny smile creased Tuor’s lips. “I told you we must each of us follow the path laid out before our feet.”

“Yes. And if my path continues to wind on long after yours has come to it’s end, then it is something I must come to accept.”

Tuor looked down, and for long moments they were silent; but he did not pull away. “I remember that night so well,” he said eventually, “When I helped you from the shore you were drenched and beaten, like a bedraggled kitten someone had at the last second decided not to drown; but to me you were a creature from legend. An elf from Gondolin! No one had seen or had word of Turgon’s people for nigh on forty years, yet here you were, alive, in the flesh, right when I had most need of your aid.” His face held a pensive smile. “I was so young, and it seemed to me that you were austere and cold, yet painfully fair, like pristine snow on the crown of a distant mountain.”

Emotion choked Voronwë’s throat, but he managed to force out, “Better than a drowned kitten.”

Tuor finally laughed. Then he looked up, and traced the tips of his fingers over Voronwë’s brow, down his cheek. “It is so strange to me, to look at my own changing face each day in the mirror, while yours could yet be the same that I looked on when I was barely four and twenty,” he said softly. “Ages may pass, and yet on you they leave no mark - like a flower no frost can touch.”

“The years leave their marks in other ways,” Voronwë said. “But you have long known that I would never grow old as you do.”

“There is a great difference between knowing it and _understanding_ it, deep within one’s heart,” Tuor said, his voice heavy.

“Tuor…”

“But you are right,” Tuor said, stepping away from their embrace, “In the end we shall be parted; and there is no one who can change our fate, save perhaps Ilúvatar himself. This is a doom I must force myself to accept.”

“Do not think on it too long or too hard,” Voronwë urged, reaching out to catch his hand. “Do not let dread of what is to come taint what time we have.”

“I will not.” Tuor twined their fingers together and pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to his lips before saying, “Come. Let us return to bed. Maybe now we have talked out our worries, sleep will be a less elusive mistress.”

The unquiet deep in Voronwë’s heart said that the matter would not so easily be resolved; still, he let Tuor pull him back toward home.

_Ered Wethrin, F.A. 496_

_Twenty-nine years earlier_

The first stirrings of day were beginning all around them, the light of Arien rising in the east starting to touch lower and lower on the high grim peaks that hung tall over their heads. After several days of hard and uneasy travel, Voronwë could think of little save rest; but the young Man and his incessant questions would not leave him alone. “If you are fortunate enough not to be killed at the gate, all your questions concerning King Turgon and his city will be answered soon thereafter,” he said, his tone short. “If you _are_ , as is more likely, sentenced to death before catching even a glimpse of Gondolin, then knowing any of these answers will give you no comfort, I can assure you.”

“They might give me comfort now,” Tuor argued.

“Indeed - and yet still I shall say no more on the subject,” Voronwë said, wrapping himself tighter in his cloak.

He had indeed seen something powerful and mighty reflected in Tuor at times, when he spoke with words given to him by Ulmo, and the gear they had prepared so long ago for Ulmo’s messenger fit him as if they had taken his every measurement. And yet, at other times, though lordly in his own right, he was little more than a green young Man, not yet even five and twenty years old. Voronwë could not say he was entirely confident the guards at Gondolin’s gates would not just laugh in his face when he claimed to have been sent by the Lord of Waters. Not every one of his people revered Lord Ulmo and heeded his counsel as did Voronwë.

Tuor grumbled something under his breath, but finally fell silent. Of course he would not be so forever - his mind was always turning, some new idea or question coming ever to the front of his thoughts. Voronwë could not say this was an entirely uncharming characteristic, once Tuor’s focus shifted from questions Voronwë did not want to answer. It was unwise to make too much noise in such blighted and dangerous lands, but Voronwë found he could not help being drawn into Tuor’s conversations, and could not stop himself from wanting to know more about this strange and intriguing young Man.

And, as the Fell Winter began to set in, he found he could not help but worry for him as well.

If the cold was agony for Voronwë, it was even more so for Tuor. Day by day he seemed to grow weaker and thinner, though he kept pace with Voronwë always, and hardly a word of complaint passed his lips. By night Voronwë took to wrapping them both in the same cloak, drawing Tuor close to his body and trying to impart some of his own warmth to him, to still the shivers that plagued his companion day and night. After their perilous crossing of the old Highway between Minas Tirith and Nargothrond, when the cries of the orcs they had avoided finally faded into the night, Voronwë slept thus, wrapped around Tuor’s sleeping form. Desperate and determined, alone in the darkness of night, Voronwë pressed a soft kiss into Tuor’s hair and whispered, “I will not let you die, Tuor son of Huor, Messenger of Ulmo. By my life or death, I will not let you die.”

The next morning, under the dim light of a red dawn, Voronwë sighted finally the towering walls of the Echoriath, and knew that their quest neared its end.

He knew, when their journey was finally over, when they had been allowed into Gondolin and Tuor had delivered his message to the King, that what he felt for Tuor was not merely the brotherly bond of companions forged in hardship and great peril.

Tuor had been two nights in Gondolin when Voronwë took him up to the garden terraces that overlooked the Square of the King. They both shared a passion for the beauty and peacefulness of a flourishing garden, for the wonder of nature in all her glory, and Voronwë watched with great pleasure as Tuor explored, expressing wonder at every turn. Some might have found it boring, but Tuor understood the wonder of plants; he understood how miraculous it was that seeds had managed to survive the great cold of their crossing from Aman, and admired without reserve the flowering trees and bushes that had been grown here from cuttings of the precious plants nurtured from those treasured seeds.

Watching him there, with such great joy in his eyes and the moonlight slivering his hair, Voronwë felt something stirring deep and painful in his heart. He knew that those feelings were like a hot, bright little ember; if he blew on them, fed and nurtured and treasured them, they might yet grow into a fire that would consume him, gut him from the inside out. Tuor was brave and fierce and beautiful, kind and wise and joyful, and already Voronwë loved him - but in the end there could be naught but bitterness in a union between the First and Second Kindreds. Voronwë knew he must snuff out that ember, and love Tuor as a friend only.

He jumped, feeling something touch his face. When he looked up Tuor was very close to him; he had reached up to brush Voronwë’s dark hair away from his face. Tuor grinned, then tucked something else behind his ear, saying as he did, “Do not worry, I did not pick it; it had already fallen from the tree.”

Voronwë had only to glance left to catch sight of his reflection in the still surface of a nearby pool. Tuor had taken up a cluster of fallen flowers from the tree above their heads and placed them behind Voronwë’s ear, their pale petals making a stark and lovely contrast with his dark hair.

Even as he smiled, Voronwë pressed his eyes closed.

Falling in love with him was something he could not now avoid, since he had already done it; the challenge would be to avoid falling any deeper.

If Voronwë could have had his choice, his first and only concerns would have been his family and the sea; after all he had been through in his nearly five hundred years of life, a plain, simple, unadorned life appealed to him. But they had lost so many leaders in the ruin of Gondolin, and though he would rather have denied it, Voronwë was of the House of the King, meaning his duties to their people could not so easily be laid aside.

One duty he _really_ wished had not fallen on his shoulders was that of settling fishing disputes.

“I do not think they will accept this little, Lirion,” he said, running his eyes across the numbers jotted down on the piece of parchment he had been handed.

“We are offering,” Lirion said tightly, “Even that is a concession.”

“I know-”

“Do you?” Lirion challenged. “Our people have been fishing these waters since before the rising of the moon or sun - before your people even set foot on these shores ag-”

Rannith laid a hand on his arm before he could get further. “You know Lord Voronwë is as Sindarin as you, on his mother’s side,” she admonished. Turning back to Voronwë, she said carefully, “But it is true that giving up the right to fish certain areas will be a blow to many of us, my lord.”

Lirion snorted, clearly thinking this was an understatement. “A _disgrace_ might be a better way of putting it. Why should we give up anything to them, anyway? These Doriathrim are from the forests; why can they not remain there? We have great need of game and wood and everything else they bring back from Nimbrethil.”

“Because working in the forests cannot sustain all of them,” Voronwë said. “And it is very dangerous, besides-”

“Their inexperience as sailors will make their lives as fisher folk equally dangerous,” Rannith pointed out.

Voronwë sighed. “I know. I have said as much to them directly, but they are adamant that this is what they want.” 

“Maybe the King’s soldiers should stop cooling their heels on Balar and come drive the orc packs out of Duinath,” another fisherman, Glîron, said. “Then they would have abundant forest to explore.”

There were many nods and murmurs of agreement around the room. Privately, Voronwë knew they placed too much hope on the King’s men - though not lacking in valour, the years had taken their toll, and there were few experienced, veteran warriors among them now. Sending them out to fight an endless battle against the innumerable orc packs that roamed in Taur-Im-Duinath might deprive the King of what little protection he had left.

Still, Voronwë said, “I will put the idea to the King. And if there are to be no more changes to this offer, I will take it-”

He was interrupted by a clangour coming from somewhere outside. The drafty hall they were using as a meeting place was usually employed as a covered market where the fisher folk could sell their catch; now someone threw open the large sliding door at the entrance, his face red and breath short as if he had run here from halfway across the city. “Lord Voronwë!” he cried.

It felt like a sliver of ice slid down Voronwë’s spine, chilling him to the core. His hand moved unconsciously to rest on the hilt of his sword. “What is wrong?”

“Lord Tuor has gone missing!”

A storm of whispers started behind him as Voronwë’s insides seemed to freeze. “But… he set out from the harbour not three hours ago, how…?”

The messenger shook his head. “I do not know, my lord, ‘missing’ was what my lord Eärendil instructed me to say- he asked that you come back with utmost urgency-”

“Of course,” Voronwë said, already moving toward the door, his mind so consumed with worry that he forgot to offer any parting words to the fisher folk behind him. He and the messenger almost ran down toward the harbour, where sat the house Tuor had constructed with his own hands many years ago for the four of them. It was simple but solid, the carvings Tuor had painstakingly etched into each surface now scoured by the wind and salt off the sea, the great eagle that crowned the ridge missing part of his beak after a particularly vicious winter storm. Voronwë thought inanely as he hurried down the street toward it of how Tuor had kept promising to fix the eagle, and kept finding excuses not to.

When he burst into the main room, it was to find only Elwing, sitting alone at the wide dining table. Though he ached to let the anxiety inside him pour forth in a frustrated shout, Voronwë held his tongue; Elwing never responded well to harsh demands or loud voices.

Indeed, at his imploring look she nodded, her silver eyes wide as she pushed a piece of parchment across the table toward him. “Read this first,” she said quietly, “It will explain some things.”

Seeing that the writing was in Tuor’s familiar rough hand, Voronwë scrambled to pick it up.

_Voronwë,_

_My love, I am sorry. Would that I could spend each hour of my life by your side, with our family; but I feel age coming up hard behind me, a spectre from whose shadow I cannot escape. My hands begin to shake, my steps begin to falter, and in my mind’s eye I see the two of you, still young and fresh as a soft spring breeze, wiping slop from the mouth of an old greybeard who used to be their husband. I cannot become that burden on you; so instead I will leave you now, that you might still remember me as I was. I have no talent for words, so know that there is more in my heart than I could ever hope to express; know that I will love you unto the ending of the world, and carry the memory of you in my heart to wherever my people go when we step beyond and outside of it. Know that, beyond and above all things, I love you._

_Your husband,_

_Tuor._

Claws of pain stabbed viciously deep into Voronwë’s chest as he read, closely followed by a thick, smothering numbness that ate him down to the very core. He was barely conscious of collapsing down into one of the seats at the table, his eyes staring unseeing at the grain in the wood.

Elwing’s small pale hand reached out to cover his, lifting his mind just slightly above the fog of grief that threatened to consume him. “Eärendil and Lady Idril went down to the harbour,” she said softly, “I said I would wait for you. Do you wish to join them?”

“At the harbour?” Voronwë asked, frowning. He felt like those words should make sense to him, though his mind could not currently untangle their meaning.

Elwing nodded. “They mean to go after him.”

Go after him. Of course - Tuor had only left this morning. Voronwë stood, stuffing Tuor’s letter roughly into one of his pockets. “Yes, let us go to the harbour - if we move now we might still catch him.”

Neither Tuor nor Voronwë had been able to bear the thought of living too far from the sea, so the harbour was only a short walk along the waterfront. There was much activity around Eärendil’s ship, Alqarámë; Voronwë could see Idril herself standing just above it on the quay, could tell that her hands were practically itching to untie the line and cast off. The set of her shoulders was tense as a drawn bow, and when she turned to him he espied tear tracks running over her perfect pale cheeks, and could not resist reaching out to draw her into his arms.

“We do not have time-” she protested half-heartedly, even as she laid her head on his shoulder.

“We do,” he countered, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

One harsh sob wracked her body. “Valar-damned man,” she mumbled into his shoulder, “Running off like a child, making us worry, all for the sake of his own vanity - why should I care whether his beard is white or gold, I ask you? Would you really think that I cared?”

“I would not,” Voronwë said softly, “But we do not feel age consume our bodies as he does. This is something we cannot understand.”

“I understood what I was doing when I married him, Voronwë.”

“As did I.”

Her arms tightened about him, and she said nothing.

There was a sound of feet hitting stone, and Eärendil’s concerned voice said, “Mother-”

Idril pulled away from Voronwë’s embrace to turn a look of firm determination on her son. “I am ready.”

Eärendil’s eyes turned to Voronwë, full of concern, but a thought had suddenly struck Voronwë’s mind like a lightning bolt sent from the heights of Mount Taniquetil. “Wait,” he said, “Before we go. Eärendil, the Oarni - they must know in which direction your father went.”

Eärendil’s eyes lit up. “They will! Quickly-” He turned and ran, aiming for the stone steps that led from the top of the quay to the water’s edge, Idril following closely behind. Crouching, Eärendil submerged his hand in the water, dragging it back and forth through the flow of the waves as he began to sing in a low, quiet voice. It was a song Voronwë had never heard, with words that at times sounded less like Sindarin or Quenya and more like the waves of Sirion’s beaches, or the angry winds that roared across the bay. Elwing stepped carefully down the steps, and her hands came to clutch around Voronwë’s arm as he walked down beside her; he covered her hand with his as Eärendil’s song reached it’s crescendo, and the water began to move in strange ways, dark shapes appearing underneath the surface.

The head that broke the surface had hair like long, flowing seaweed, so dark green it was almost black. Her eyes shone out from somewhere under the dark clumps of hair, shining blank and pure white like secretive pearls hidden inside an oyster. Her voice was like the whisper of shifting sand in the dunes. “What do you seek, Sea-Lover?”

“My father,” Eärendil said, “He left some time this morning. Do you know which direction he took?”

“Already he has gone far, Sea-Lover, borne over trackless seas by the power of Ulmo the most mighty,” the Oarni sighed. “We cannot say whither he went; but it was to no mortal shore.”

“What do you mean?” Eärendil said. His face and voice were full of fearful apprehension, but a cold pit of certainty was already forming in Voronwë’s heart.

“Sea-maiden, has Ulmo taken him already by the secret path, to Mandos and beyond?” Voronwë asked, his voice low.

The Oarni turned her pearl-bright eyes to him. “It may indeed be that that is so. Whatever road they took, we can neither find nor follow it; if he be gone unto the uttermost West, then he is indeed removed from the circles of this world, and none shall follow after.”

Eärendil let out a wordless exclamation of dismay, rising to his feet even as the Oarni maiden slipped silently back beneath the surface. “This cannot be! How could Lord Ulmo agree to be his accomplice in this disappearance?”

“His ways are His own,” Voronwë said warningly, but Eärendil was no longer listening.

“Come; I cannot believe we will not catch up to him! Come!” With that Eärendil turned and pounded back up the steps to the top of the quay, Idril close behind.

Voronwë sighed and also rose to his feet, his arm supporting Elwing as they climbed the steps at a much more sedate pace. “I will stay,” Elwing said as they reached the top, “Perhaps he will change his mind and come home.”

“Mayhap,” Voronwë said - but if Tuor had truly gone to Mandos, then his return was as likely as the sun rising in the west. The thought sent a lace of pain through Voronwë’s chest, and echoed through his mind with a sickening _clang_ of finality. _He is gone_.

“I will send a message to the King also,” Elwing said.

Voronwë nodded and patted her hand, saying, “Keep yourself safe,” before turning to the ship. There was a ladder down, but Voronwë eschewed it, leaping and landing with a thump on the thick wooden boards of Alqarámë’s deck.

Elwing leant down and unpicked the knots that fastened Alqarámë to the quay, throwing the thick ropes down into the arms of her sailors. Eärendil called to her brightly as they pushed away from the quay wall, and she answered with a smile and a graceful wave of her arm; and then they were off, Alqarámë picking up speed as they unfurled the sail and slid out past the harbour walls and into the swell.

/

They returned at evening three days later, their quest as unsuccessful as Voronwë had feared it would be.

Idril sat in the prow, consumed by a sorrow that Voronwë’s words could not shake; similarly he could not lift the grim shadows that marred Eärendil’s face where he stood by the helm. The same dark mood and sharp pain ate at Voronwë’s own heart, though he hid it better. Even as the lamps strung along the Haven’s quays appeared in the distance, the little winking lights like stars that had so often welcomed them home, Voronwë felt none of the usual joy at their return. 

Elwing awaited them at the end of the quay, arrayed in a sparkling mantle of white. Beside her was Ereinion, a simple circlet his only adornment; his face grew grave as they pulled into harbour, and beside him Elwing’s was filled with sorrow. Clearly they could see that Tuor had not been found.

Once he climbed the ladder, Eärendil went straight to Elwing’s arms, and they held each other silently. Voronwë climbed up first, and reached down a hand to pull Idril up after him, where Ereinion greeted them both. “Voronwë, Itarillë… I am so sorry.”

Both of them reached to grasp one of his hands. Idril for long moments looked as if she wanted to speak, and they waited for her; at length she said, “It is… not quite real yet, in my mind.” Her eyes looked over Ereinion’s shoulder to the sea, as if she saw something revealed to her eyes alone. “The blows keep falling, and each one seems to hit harder than the last.”

Voronwë tightened his arm around her. “We should go inside and rest.”

Idril shook her head. “No, I… I cannot yet face going back to the house. Let me walk along the beach a little - it will settle my mind.”

They had been working with little rest and sleep for three days, and Idril like any of them was exhausted, but Voronwë understood her mood. He could not say he relished the thought of going home either, not now every board and beam and carving would remind him of Tuor. “Be safe,” he implored, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead, and then he and Ereinion watched in silence as she walked back along the quay and disappeared down the path to the beach. Elwing and Eärendil followed close behind, pressed together and whispering softly, leaving the two of them alone.

The air was full of the gentle sigh of waves against the quay’s stone feet, and the creaking and groaning of rope and board as the boats secured to their moorings moved back and forth with the swell. At most times Alqarámë and her sister Eärrámë had been the largest vessels in the harbour; now Alqarámë was at her mooring alone, only a wide stretch of grey wall left where Tuor’s ship had once been drawn up beside her.

When Voronwë raised his eyes to the bay, he could see one of the King’s beautiful galleons at anchor just off the harbour’s mouth, brilliant white in the moonlight. “Have you been here long?” he asked.

“We came as soon as Elwing sent the message,” Ereinion said. They were quiet for a few seconds more before he asked in a low voice, “Elwing said that when you spoke with an Oarni maiden, she said…”

“That Tuor has gone beyond the circles of the world?” Voronwë said. “She did say that, though she was not sure of it. But if Tuor really had Ulmo’s aid in his departure, what then can we do but accept?” Voronwë closed his eyes, and behind them he saw flames towering into the sky, a city burning in the night. “Already we know well the price of ignoring Him.”

Ereinion said nothing for a long time. “It seems hard on you,” he said slowly, “To take him when still he had so many years of life left.”

“It was what Tuor wanted.”

“Still.”

Voronwë shook his head. “The Lord of Waters moves in mysterious ways. I have known this since I woke on the beach at Vinyamar, the only survivor among all my fellows. I have often asked, if one were to be saved, then why not all? Why sink each searching ship, instead of sending them back empty-handed?” When Ereinion said nothing, he continued, “It is as they say; ‘born in sorrow, our inheritance only grief, unchanging unto the sundering of the world’.”

“Voronwë…”

Before Ereinion could say more, both of them heard a snatch of song on the breeze, the words indistinguishable, the voice high and clear. The sound held them still, for though they could not make out the words, the pure, aching sorrow was unmistakable, touching them deep in their hearts. As if he were in a dream, Voronwë moved to the farther side of the quay. Peering over, he could see down across the wide beach that swept out toward the Sirion’s many-mouthed delta; standing at the border between waves and sand he could make out a figure, her bright golden hair flowing behind her in the wind, caressed by moonlight. High and clear and pure, her voice echoed out across the waves, as if to call Tuor back from wherever he had fled.

Voronwë did not realise tears were flowing down his face until both of Ereinion’s hands landed on his shoulders, squeezing tight and pulling him into an embrace. When he opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was a sob.

/

The next morning, Voronwë went to the house of Andaer, the man representing the people of Doriath who wished to try their hand as sailors and fisher folk. His wife’s eyes were wide with surprise when she opened the door, but she quickly ushered him inside. She handed him the customary cup of water as welcome, which he sipped perfunctorily; when Andaer appeared a few moments later, Voronwë produced the scroll he had been carrying on his person since that fateful morning a few days ago. “Forgive me for taking this long,” he said, “I did not realise the parchment was still in my possession when we set out to sea.” Both Andaer and his wife were giving him strange looks, their expressions combining confusion and pity, but Voronwë pretended not to see. “I am sorry the answer is not more favourable to you. There may be need for more discussions in the future.”

Andaer nodded his head, not opening the scroll. “You have our thanks anyway, my lord, for speaking for us in this matter.” He hesitated, then added, “You also should feel no need to… burden yourself on our account, at this time.”

“I will not allow my own personal grief to interfere with your livelihoods.” Voronwë drained the cup of water and passed it back before nodding his head stiffly. “We will await your answer.”

Out on the street, he could feel people staring, their gazes more keen than usual. Their unspoken questions, their judgement, made him want to flee back to the house and never emerge, but he forced himself to walk with purpose toward the quays. He had done enough crying already - onto the King’s own shoulder, no less - and there was no more time for it. He had long known this day would come; he could not allow himself to break apart.

Throughout the morning he made visits across the city, seeming to startle many in the process - but it was necessary to move quickly, now Tuor was gone. He had purposely lessened his responsibilities over the years, but still several important areas would be left with no supervision or leadership now he had departed, if Voronwë did not move quickly. There was a precarious balance to be maintained, as always, between the Noldor and Northern Sindar who had come from Gondolin, and the people of Doriath; neither could have too little or too much say over affairs in the city.

Eärendil found him just as he was leaving a meeting between the leaders of both parties in the city. The young man was waiting in the street outside the Town Hall, his expression and bearing tense. He made the barest of polite greetings to everyone present before grabbing Voronwë’s wrist and looking at him imploringly.

Voronwë exchanged a glance with Ereinion, who seemed to understand; the King moved off down the road toward the harbour, trailed by Círdan, Celeborn and Galadriel. The latter turned her head to look at them as she passed, her expression curious; but she did not speak.

When they were alone, Voronwë said, “What is wrong? Is your mother-?”

“She is composing,” Eärendil said, a complicated look passing over his face.

“Ah. Music or dance?”

“Music. It sounds… very sad.” Eärendil sighed and looked down at his feet. “I do not think she will have the heart for dancing for some time.”

“No.” Voronwë wondered if she was putting to paper the beautiful lament she had sung on the beach the night before. He was not sure he could withstand her performing it aloud once more; then again, it was unlikely she would sing the piece before an audience for many years, if ever. The grief in it was so close, so personal; to sing of it was to expose the innermost depths of her heart.

“Then what is wrong?” Voronwë asked.

Eärendil seemed to chew on his words for a moment. “I want… I wish to set sail again in search of father,” he said.

Voronwë sighed. “If he has gone beyond-”

“Then I will go beyond and find him,” Eärendil said, his eyes alight.

Voronwë stared at him for a moment. “That is impossible, Eärendil.”

“We cannot know until we try. One man came back from beyond Mandos’ Halls; why not another?”

“Think you that you have the power to call on Ilúvatar Himself?” Voronwë said sharply.

Eärendil turned betrayed eyes on him. “How can you give him up so quickly?” he demanded. “He has been gone not more than a week!”

Voronwë sighed and closed his eyes. “He is mortal, Eärendil; I gave up on having him forever on the day I married him.”

Eärendil’s eyes were full of tears, and Voronwë could do naught but reach out and pull him close. Eärendil allowed it, pressing his face into Voronwë’s shoulder. “The pain will fade in time,” Voronwë said, stroking a hand across Eärendil’s hair, “And you will have him always in memory. He will live on in you.”

Eärendil’s shoulders shuddered; then he pushed away, shaking his head. “I cannot-” he said, then stopped, his voice choked.

Voronwë called his name, but the young man turned away and strode down the street, heading toward the harbour. Concerned, Voronwë followed at a distance; as expected, Eärendil strode down the quay and leapt down onto the deck of Alqarámë, his expression thunderous. Voronwë walked up silently and leant against a pile of fishing crates as he watched Eärendil work, rushing about the deck with grim determination on his face. Only when he turned to the mooring lines did he notice Voronwë. “So you _are_ coming?” he demanded, scowling up at him.

“If you wish to leave, I can do nothing but follow,” Voronwë said.

Eärendil’s hand hesitated on the rope. “I do wish to leave,” he said slowly. “I cannot conceive of staying here quietly while there might still be a chance of bringing him back.”

“You may insult the Lord of Waters Himself with this quest - to make no mention of the Master of the Halls of the Dead.”

The look on Eärendil’s face said clearly, _let them be insulted_ , though he did not go so far as to say it aloud.

Voronwë sighed. “Truly, you are as tempestuous and wilful as the ocean herself.” He hopped down onto Alqarámë’s deck and laid his hand over Eärendil’s where it still hesitated over the ropes. “If you will go, I will follow,” he repeated, “But if we are truly making this an expedition, we cannot leave in a hurry, only the two of us.”

“Every hour we waste-”

“I know. But what will be the point, if we all lose our lives in the endeavour instead of saving him?”

After a moment, Eärendil’s hand finally released the rope. “Very well. But let us begin laying in supplies immediately.”

“I will handle that, and see if I can convince any crew to accompany us on this madcap venture,” Voronwë said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Meanwhile, you had best see if you can sell this idea to your wife and mother.”

Eärendil grimaced, but turned obediently toward home. Holding in a heavy sigh, Voronwë went looking for the harbour master.

The next two days were hectic. Besides helping Eärendil with preparations for their journey, he had to ensure all his other responsibilities would be looked after in his absence. He got the strong sense that Ereinion was unwilling to see him depart, though he did not deny him; the other surviving lords from Gondolin, Egalmoth and Galdor, both promised to take on the greater share of his work while he was gone.

Still, it was with a heavy heart that Voronwë finally cast off their mooring lines and helped set the mainsail, propelling them out of the harbour. Though he wished he could believe that they would come to their journey’s end to find Tuor, alive and well and waiting for them, his heart was full of foreboding.

Side by side at the end of the quay stood two figures, watching them leave. Elwing was in a cloak as deep blue as the sky at midnight, clutched close around her shoulders; Idril was clothed all in white, her unbound hair whipping long and golden in the wind. She raised her arm in farewell as they beat through the waves and out to sea, a jewel on her wrist catching the light of the sun for a moment, flashing like a beacon. He had asked her to come, as well, but she had declined, arguing that at least one of them should remain in the Havens.

His heart heavy, Voronwë raised his hand and waved back.

_Gondolin, F.A. 504_

_Twenty-one years earlier_

Voronwë had left the party early, his heart heavy, in no mood for cheer and dancing. Leaving the Palace alone, he had crossed the Square of the King and started down the Alley of Roses by the time he felt someone catch his hand. He turned quickly, fearing that either Tuor or Idril had come after him; he was relieved to find only Elemmakil. “What is it?” he asked.

Elemmakil was frowning at him. “What is it?” he repeated incredulously. “One of your - supposedly - best friends in the world is celebrating his son’s first birthday, and here you are, slinking off into the night like a beaten dog.”

“I am not acting like a _beaten dog_ ,” Voronwë said, stung, pulling his hand away.

“A very sad dog, then.” Elemmakil frowned at him. “If you are this obvious, tongues might start to wag.”

“And they will definitely wag if you begin talking about this in the middle of the street,” Voronwë said, looking left and right down the avenue. Luckily, there was no one in sight. “Come,” he commanded, grasping Elemmakil’s hand and pulling him into the rose gardens that lined either side of the street.

“Tuor _will_ wonder what was wrong,” Elemmakil said, pitching his voice low. “What will you tell him, exactly?”

“An elf is allowed to be tired on occasion,” Voronwë said shortly.

“This is a once in a lifetime event-”

“Eärendil will have other birthdays.”

“Not his _first_ birthday.”

“I will hear the exact same things from Tuor tomorrow, no doubt,” Voronwë snapped, “I have no need to hear them from you also.”

Elemmakil fell silent, and guilt bloomed in Voronwë’s gut. “Sorry,” he said after a moment, “You do not deserve my ire; I know you only speak the truth.”

Elemmakil nodded. “I will not be angry at you, so long as you tell me why you _really_ left the party.”

Now they were a good distance into the gardens, Voronwë finally sat down on one of the many benches scattered about, knowing they would be concealed from anyone walking past - and unheard, so long as they kept their voices low. “Do you not already know?” he asked.

“Then… tonight brought it all to a head?” Elemmakil asked, sitting down beside him.

Voronwë inclined his head. “Something like that. It… it is hard, Elemmakil, to be around them constantly.” Seeing how Elemmakil’s lips thinned, Voronwë almost laughed. “Yes, I remember what you told me. Maybe I should never have become so close to them; but how could I not?”

“You would have saved yourself a great deal of pain in the long run,” Elemmakil said.

“Maybe. But Tuor needed me, when we first arrived; I could not abandon him.” Voronwë sighed again, his eyes looking out into the middle distance. He saw not the beautiful garden of roses arrayed around them, but instead a vision of the couple he had just left - how radiant and joyous they looked together with their son. “Now I could as easily leave them as I could rip out my own heart.”

Elemmakil said nothing, but he laid a comforting hand on Voronwë’s shoulder.

After a moment Voronwë snorted. “It is ironic, is it not?”

“What?”

“I gave up hope of courting Idril once, thinking that I would be looked down on for my family’s lack of power and influence, or for my mother’s Sindarin blood. I gave up hope of loving Tuor too, thinking that such love could only lead to tragedy between the First and Second Kindreds. But then they marry each other!” Voronwë shook his head. “Yes. Sometimes it weighs on me a great deal; I would rather contend with awkward questions in the morning than let them see that sorrow.”

Elemmakil squeezed his shoulder. “I understand, my friend. For what it is worth, I wish…” Voronwë looked at him questioningly, and Elemmakil seemed to hesitate before he said, “I only wish you could be happy.”

“Ha.” Voronwë’s laugh was humourless. “Little chance of that, I think.”

“You deserve to be happy, Voronwë,” Elemmakil said, patting his shoulder. “Just… remember that.”

“I will find some way to happiness,” Voronwë promised, though a large part of him did not believe it. It was worth saying, though, just to see some of the tension around Elemmakil’s eyes ease. “Now, do not let me keep you from the party.”

“Promise me you will come back if you begin to feel better,” Elemmakil said, standing.

Voronwë waved him off, and smiled at his retreating back as he disappeared among the roses. He had a great friend in Elemmakil; a friend he was at times not sure he deserved.

For a time he sat there alone, closing his eyes and breathing in the sweet fragrance of the roses, trying to let the peace of the quiet night and the heavy scent of the flowers act as balm to the sorrow within his heart.

Thus distracted, he jumped when a voice close at hand said, “Voronwë.”

Voronwë’s eyes shot open. Of course he recognised the voice - and there stood Tuor before him, his expression hard to read. “Oh,” Voronwë said, blinking, “I meant to slip away quietly, and not distract you-”

“Is it true?” Tuor asked, his voice quiet but tense.

A peal of alarm echoed through Voronwë’s chest, but he only answered cautiously, “Is what true?”

Tuor’s eyes burnt into Voronwë’s own. “I followed out after Elemmakil; I heard everything that passed between you.”

Shock rendered Voronwë speechless for a moment; it was followed quickly by horrified, mortified panic, making the breaths come short in his chest. “I-” He stood, mindlessly moving as if to back away.

Tuor’s hand whipped out to catch his wrist. “Is it true?” he asked again, and Voronwë could not tell if he was desperate or angry.

He had heard everything - there was no way Voronwë could lie. He shut his eyes; that made it easier for his long-held secret to finally slip out. “Yes. Tuor, I- I love you. I am sor-”

The hand on his wrist tugged, pulling him forward. He stumbled, and an arm caught around his back, pressing him close to Tuor’s warm body; then Tuor’s lips covered his, and for a moment Voronwë could think of nothing.

Tuor kissed him deep and slow, leaving Voronwë breathless, his hands clutching at Tuor’s broad shoulders. When they finally parted Tuor went no more than a breath away, his lips brushing against Voronwë’s as he whispered, “I have waited all this time, longing for you, thinking you felt nothing in return-”

“Tuor-” Voronwë said, but then Tuor was kissing him again, one arm pressing him close, one hand gently cradling his face.

In his heart Voronwë wanted nothing more than to remain like that; to let Tuor kiss him until every star fell from the heavens above. Joy flared like searing fire in his heart, and he could taste love and happiness in the sweet slide of Tuor’s mouth against his, feel promise in the rough calluses that rasped against his cheek-

But his head, ever logical and persistent, would not let him be. Pushing Tuor away, he whispered, “Tuor we- we cannot.”

Tuor’s brow furrowed, and the bereft look on his face made something in Voronwë ache. “What?”

“Did you forget that you are married?” Voronwë tried to step away, but Tuor’s arm tightened around him. “Tuor, please, do not-”

“I cannot let you go,” Tuor said, his voice hoarse, “Not now I know you feel the same. Voronwë, I cannot.”

“You cannot abandon your wife-”

“You think she does not love you also?” Tuor said softly.

Hope leapt for a second in Voronwë’s heart, but he forced it down mercilessly. That was nothing but Tuor’s own wishful thinking; even if Tuor loved him, he would never be lucky enough for Idril to feel the same. “However you or she feel, you are married, and there is no provision for a third party,” Voronwë said, finally succeeding in breaking free of Tuor’s arms.

“There could be.”

Voronwë shook his head. “The King would never allow it; it is pointless to discuss it.”

“Certainly, if you never even advance the issue to him, he will have no chance to allow it,” Tuor snapped. “How can you be so quick to dismiss this?”

“Because I cannot bear to see you invite such a scandal onto yourself,” Voronwë said quietly. “Such things are different here in the Hidden City, Tuor; you cannot leave to escape the gossips, and you will be hard pressed to find another scandal to top yours. Their eyes will follow you everywhere, judging you while they whisper behind their hands; infamy will excommunicate you from every confidence and friendship. I- I cannot be the cause of that for you, Tuor.”

“Voronwë,” Tuor said, and the way he said his name made something shiver, deep within Voronwë’s core. “What are a thousand gossipping tongues before true love?”

“You do not know-”

Tuor stepped closer, taking Voronwë’s hand as he said, low and intense, “If I must move the very mountains around us to have both you and Idril by my side, then I will see it done.”

Voronwë could only stare up at him, mouth slightly open, too stunned to speak. Tuor leant forward slowly as if to claim his lips again - and then a young voice called, “Ata!”

They both jumped. Voronwë looked about wildly; Eärendil was nowhere in sight, but he could hear Idril’s silvery laugh, and her voice saying, “Yes, over here, Eärendil!” From the sound of it they were only a little ways away, probably just behind the next clump of rose bushes.

Tuor turned toward their voices, and Voronwë used his moment of distraction to pull his hand away and make his escape. He heard Tuor’s voice call his name as he rounded a nearby rose bush, but then Eärendil cried, “Ata!” again in a voice that clearly said he had spotted his father, and Voronwë knew he would not be followed.

He threaded his way through the rose gardens that surrounded either side of the Alley of Roses, and then made his way up into the garden terraces that overlooked the King’s Square. His heart was beating very fast, a sick feeling churning in his stomach; he did not realise that tears were sliding down his face until a few minutes later, when he was alone deep in the quiet, moonlit gardens.

He slid down and sat at the base of one of the formal hedges, hidden in the foliage, and buried his face in his hands, letting all the sorrow inside him spill out as deep, wracking sobs, feeling in that moment like the most wretched creature in all the world.

When Voronwë closed his eyes, the last thing he saw was the wooden beams of the deck above his hammock.

When he opened them again, he saw the endless stream of stars aloft in the night’s sky.

Quickly looking about, he ascertained that he was lying on sand, and that waves were washing in close at hand; before he could grasp any more, a voice said, “If I cannot dissuade you, then perhaps you will listen to one you trust.”

The voice was deep as the darkest depths of the sea, echoing like the boom of waves in deep ocean caves, holding in it all the power of every drop of water in Arda. Voronwë looked up slowly, blood turning to ice in his veins.

Eärendil stood ankle-deep in the waves, an angry light flashing in his eyes; before him out of the surf rose a huge figure, His form rippling and moving like water only loosely held together, face shrouded in shadow.

Voronwë rolled up onto one knee and bent his head. “Lord of Waters.”

Ulmo inclined His great head. “Voronwë, son of Aranwë, once by My hand were you saved from fell waters; why do you now risk that gift on such a quest as this?”

Voronwë looked over at Eärendil, and said softly, “For what other reason but love, of both father and son?”

Ulmo’s grumble was like a river rushing over a tumbling bed of pebbles.

Hesitant, Voronwë asked, “Do you oppose this quest, my lord?”

“Tuor son of Huor is gone now far beyond your reach; your fool errand can bring naught but disaster and death.”

It was the answer Voronwë had been hoping not to hear, but the one he had in his heart been expecting. He hung his head, hiding his face as said only, “I see.”

The anger Eärendil had been holding in finally bubbled to the surface, and he demanded, “Then am I to so easily accept that my father is gone?”

“There are many things yet to pass in this world,” Ulmo said, “And I sense that Tuor’s ultimate fate is not yet decided. Yea, it may even come to pass that you all shall live in bliss together once more.”

Eärendil’s face was full of pain. “Then why not lead me to him now?”

“The time is not yet right, and still your path winds long in front of you, Eärendil. Many will be the trials you must face before you two are reunited.”

Ulmo reached out a hand and pointed; following the direction of His finger, Voronwë saw lights appear on the horizon, bobbing like fireflies above the water. Their formation could not be mistaken; they were the harbour lights of Sirion.

“You must go back,” Ulmo said.

Eärendil shook his head. “I cannot.”

“This path you follow will lead to nothing but ruin and death,” Ulmo said darkly.

The words struck fear into the very core of Voronwë’s heart, and he reached out to Eärendil, saying, “Eärendil, you cannot ignore-”

“I will continue with this quest,” Eärendil announced, staring up at the God of the Sea with defiant eyes, “Unto whatever end.”

The waves crashed against the beach, and Ulmo’s voice echoed like a rumbling tumult of thunder in the heavens.

“So be it.”

/

Voronwë awoke with a _thud_ ; it was a moment before he sorted out his tangled limbs and realised he was rolling about on the floor of the hold. Instantly his face burned; he had not fallen out of his hammock since his very first night aboard a ship.

Around him, he could hear surprised laughter. “I told you not to spend so long on land solving petty arguments, my lord,” Erellont’s voice said from above.

Voronwë sat up and pushed his mussed hair away from his face. “Where is Eärendil?”

Erellont seemed to sense something of his anxious mood, and his face became sombre. “Up on deck,” he said, nodding toward the ladder. “He… seemed to have a lot on his mind.”

Voronwë nodded his thanks and went immediately up the stairs, only taking the time to put on a coat because Aerandir caught up to him and forced it into his hands.

Eärendil was sitting at the prow, his usual spot for thinking. He turned when Voronwë approached, and held up a hand. “I know what you are going to say.”

“Then I can only pray you heed me,” Voronwë said, frowning down at him.

A wealth of emotions passed across Eärendil’s face, the most prominent among them frustration. “I still cannot believe that fate and all the world is thus set against me.”

Voronwë sat down opposite him and reached out to press Eärendil’s hands between his. “Did you not hear what Lord Ulmo said? Your father’s fate is not decided.”

“‘It may even come to pass that you all shall live in bliss together once more’,” Eärendil quoted. “The opposite being, of course, that we may not.”

“Has it not ever been so? My great destiny ended when Tuor arrived in Gondolin; ‘tis only luck that has kept me from taking an orc arrow in the neck and ending our bliss with tragedy.”

Eärendil’s face paled. “Do not say that. I do not even want to think on such a possibility.”

“I know; but though I will live many years of men, I am not promised eternity. Not everyone’s fates are set.” Eärendil looked down, his face dark, and Voronwë nodded toward the sailors working near the helm. “I doubt they are guarded by the hands of fate as you are, either. Remember, it is also their lives you risk with this quest.”

Eärendil chewed his lip. “I know.”

Voronwë patted his hand, then stood. “Take some time to think about it. The wind is gentle today anyway; I doubt we will go far.”

But as it turned out, time was the one thing they did not have.

The wind picked up speed throughout the day, and at first Voronwë thought nothing of it. He forced himself not to pace, and not to stare at Eärendil as he sat in thought at the prow or when he climbed up into the rigging to gaze out at the sea; it was not an easy decision to make, and after all, he had promised not to rush him.

By early evening a brisk wind was whipping them along, heading northward, and Voronwë could see clouds gathering in the southern skies. They were at most twenty miles out from the shore, so Voronwë had Falathar steer them toward land, hoping they might find a bay or cove in which to take shelter before the bad weather caught up with them.

As ever, there was an itch under Voronwë’s skin as he watched the clouds approach, a churning in his gut that he couldn’t quite quell. The storm that had wrecked him at Vinyamar had left its mark, a scar that ran deep indeed.

Just as it had been with that nightmare tempest, the winds and waves and dark clouds came on them fast, before they could get to cover. While above the clouds churned, towering high like great grey and black castles in the air, below the wind howled like a thousand dying animals, the swell whipping up until waves were washing over the side of the ship.

Falathar had lashed himself to the helm, with Voronwë tied in beside him; they could barely see the prow and the other men on deck through the rain lashing into their eyes, let alone discern the direction of the shore. Voronwë had the compass, and even his elvish constitution could not keep his hands from shaking as he looked at it. The cold seemed to bite unnaturally deep, the waves rise unnaturally high - and suddenly through the wind, Voronwë thought he heard fell laughter echoing in the air.

 _We have run out of time_ , Voronwë thought, desperately trying to read the instrument in his hands. There was precious little they would be able to do, if the storm really was controlled by Ossë and His spirits; but they could fight for every scrap of distance back toward land. Even if they were wrecked, it would mean a shorter distance to swim. _A shorter distance for Eärendil to swim,_ Voronwë thought, then pushed the thought away. Even if Eärendil was fated to survive, he could not give up on the other sailors yet.

“Ten degrees to starboard!” he called, screaming the words right next to Falathar’s ear in order to be heard, and the other elf obediently swung the wheel.

It seemed to have little effect - but it was all they could do.

Voronwë held the rail beside him in a death grip. It was as if the spectre of that first shipwreck rose in his mind; he almost fancied he could see his previous crew through the rain, struggling with rope and sail against the wind, a desperate, fruitless attempt at survival. Even when he pressed his eyes closed, he could almost hear their voices - hear their screams as they were swallowed by the deep.

Falathar yelled something, his voice whipped away by the wind. Voronwë leant in close, and this time heard, “-taken on too much water!”

Voronwë’s heart was like ice, his breath short and panicked, but he managed to yell back, “Hold it until the last moment!”

Alqarámë ploughed on through the storm, heavy and sluggish, barely making headway against the waves. All of a sudden a great _crack_ rang out above the howling wind, and a shudder ran through every timber of the ship. Though he couldn’t hear the word, Voronwë could still clearly see Falathar mouth _rocks!_

There was no time to protest that they should still have been too far out to sea to run aground; in a flash Voronwë’s knife was in his hand, and he began to saw through the ropes holding Falathar to the helm. The low groan of splitting wood was horribly loud above the storm, and it brought a sick, choking fear to Voronwë’s throat, but he kept going. Soon enough Falathar was free, and he sprang away toward the starboard rail. Voronwë set to his own rope, slashing at it like a madman, praying in his head that even if he died, somehow Eärendil would survive.

He had only just released himself when the deck pitched under his feet, tilting sideways and tipping like something below had given way; helpless to resist, Voronwë was thrown into the air, away from the ship.

Hitting the ice-cold water was enough to blow all the air from his lungs. Trying to cut through the panic gripping his mind and surging in his chest, he tried to force his feet downward and kicked; but even when he opened stinging eyes, the blackness around him was absolute. There was no way to tell in which direction air and safety lay.

It was a cruel irony that, if he could have chosen any way to die, Voronwë would have preferred most anything to drowning. The shipwreck at Vinyamar had haunted his dreams for years, plaguing him with images of his comrades’ deaths, or with alternate scenarios where he too was dragged under and died with them. Now, as he thrashed desperately in the black water, it felt almost inevitable. He had been spared once; he would not be so lucky a second time. Though he continued to try and swim, he closed his eyes again. _May the next thing I see be the peace of Mandos’ Halls._

As Voronwë tried to swim upward, a pointless struggle against the enclosing water, a soft voice whispered against his ear, _Let the water kiss your lungs, oh elvish mariner fair; let us take you down to sleep in the darkness where no light disturbs our dreaming peace…_

Voronwë beat against the water, fervently reciting a rough prayer in his mind; _Lord Mandos, now this servant is at the brink of death, pray do not break our ancient compact, do not leave my soul to darkness unending, hear my prayer-_

His sight was growing dim, his limbs weak. Before he blacked out, it felt as if two strong arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him backward - but soon he fell into darkness and knew no more.

/

Voronwë had fully expected his next sight to be of Mandos’ famed and eternal Halls of the Dead. However, when he struggled back to consciousness, the first thing he became aware of was the sigh of waves against the shore. For a moment he wondered if this was some illusion to comfort him in the strangeness of death; but then he blinked open his eyes, and beheld the rough spun weave of someone’s shirt.

Cataloguing all the aches and pains on his body, it seemed he retained all four limbs and all ten fingers; given how cold his toes were, he couldn’t be certain about them. He was lying across someone’s lap; beside him, that person’s chest hitched, as if they were suppressing a sob. “Eärendil?” he guessed quietly.

With a quiet gasp, the arm supporting his head shifted, revealing Eärendil’s tear-stained face. “You are alive!”

Voronwë pressed his eyes closed, his head spinning. “Just barely.”

“I thought- you were so still and silent, I feared I had pulled nothing but your body out of the water…”

Voronwë remembered the arms around his waist, and was not sure whether to laugh or cry. “Eärendil, did I not tell you never to place yourself in such danger for me?”

“I will do as I will,” Eärendil said stubbornly.

“Yes, that being the heart of the problem.”

Eärendil’s face crumpled, and guilt welled up in Voronwë’s throat like sick bile. “Wait- I did not mean-”

Eärendil wiped at his eyes. “You are right, though. There was nothing natural about that storm- if I had but heeded Ulmo’s warning-”

“Help me sit up,” Voronwë said, and though it made his head spin again, he let Eärendil support him as he forced himself into a sitting position. They were on a beach some distance from the surf, the sand an unusual glistening white. Away across the beach, he could see the familiar figures of Falathar and Aerandir, both looking despondently out over the sea, the former’s arm in a rough sling. When he followed their gazes, Voronwë saw with a stab of pain that the shattered remains of Alqarámë were spread out on the rocks at the mouth of the bay, her keel and half the hull gone, her broken mast leaning at a bizarre angle.

There was no one else on the beach. “Is… did everyone…?” Voronwë could not even force himself to voice the question.

“Erellont went hunting. The rest are gone,” Eärendil said, his voice heavy with despair.

Voronwë closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his throbbing temples. Over ten men swallowed by the sea, and only the five of them left, with nothing save the clothes on their backs. Voronwë did not dare curse Ossë, even in the privacy of his mind, knowing how fickle and capricious the Maia could be - but in that moment he dearly desired to.

“Where are we?” he asked.

Eärendil nodded up toward where the sand ended and the grass began. “Look,” he said, “A small wooden cottage above a white sand beach.”

Voronwë looked, and saw a simple but homely little construction sitting back a little ways from the beach, beyond the high water mark. There was something familiar about it, but he could not put it into words.

A slight smile lifted Eärendil’s lips as he added, “There are many beautiful carvings on the walls inside, all of them depicting animals.”

Something went _click_ in Voronwë’s mind. “Falasquil,” he said, voice breathy with wonder and surprise. “How in Arda…”

“It seems as if the hand of Ulmo is still on us, after all.”

“On you, perhaps,” Voronwë said, shaking his head.

“Come on; you should lie down inside.” Eärendil rose to his feet, then helped Voronwë up. He had to lean on the younger man heavily, and it was a struggle to make it across the distance, even when Aerandir leapt up to come and help.

The cottage gave off a sense of personality so strong, it was almost like recognising someone’s handwriting; as they paused for Eärendil to open the door, Voronwë brushed his hand against the wood, an image springing to life in his mind’s eye. He could clearly remember Tuor sawing and planing boards for their home, measuring the doorways and windows, the care he had taken in each exact detail. Voronwë closed his eyes, forcing back tears.

The space inside was small, and surprisingly neat for a cottage left so long abandoned. On a second look, Voronwë realised that was because there was little in the cottage to begin with. A simple table and chairs, a fireplace, and a bed were all the accommodations the small space boasted.

Eärendil made a face, and seemed to reconsider laying him on the bed, instead settling him in one of the chairs. “I will go out and gather something to make it a little softer,” he said, disappearing again through the door. After ascertaining that he would be alright for the moment on his own, Aerandir went out as well to search for firewood.

Alone, Voronwë finally allowed himself to close his eyes, letting his head rest against the tabletop. He must have fallen asleep, because he woke to Eärendil shaking his shoulder. “Let me help you to the bed,” he said, getting his shoulder under Voronwë’s.

“You do take good care of this old man, Eärendil,” Voronwë said, his voice fuzzy with sleep, as Eärendil helped him up. He saw the flat board that formed the base of the bed had had something spread over it - probably foliage from outside - which had then been covered by Eärendil’s cloak.

“Of course I do,” Eärendil said softly, helping him lie down.

Voronwë’s head was throbbing - he did not remember hitting it, but perhaps it was an aftereffect from the lack of air? His lungs were on fire where he had swallowed seawater, and for a moment all he wanted was to sink into rest.

Then Eärendil sat down next to him, and when Voronwë opened his eyes to look up at him, his gaze caught on a carving just above the bed. He raised a hand, brushing over it with his fingers. “A swan,” he whispered, feeling tears come unbidden to his eyes.

Eärendil looked as well, and sorrow clouded his features. “Of course. His favourite.”

Voronwë pressed his eyes closed again, letting his hand fall. It was still so hard to believe Tuor was gone.

Darkness had come while he had slept at the table, so he shifted his arm and said, “Come, lie here. You are as exhausted as me.”

For once, Eärendil did not hesitate, and lay down swiftly next to him, pillowing his head on Voronwë’s shoulder. Despite everything, a smile came to Voronwë’s lips. Once, what seemed an incredibly long time ago now, they had slept this way in Eärendil’s beautiful bedchamber in Gondolin, Eärendil no more than four or five years old. He had slept so peacefully then, his worries no more than the petty concerns of childhood. Voronwë mourned for a moment that that was no longer so.

“Sleep,” he said, laying a hand on Eärendil’s head, “And for a little while, think not of what tomorrow may bring.”

_Gondolin, F.A. 504_

_Twenty-one years earlier_

Voronwë had spent the entirety of the last week hiding from Tuor and Idril like a coward.

He had spent most of that time trying to convince himself he had done the right thing. He could not be the reason for the break-up of Tuor and Idril’s marriage; he could not open them both to the shame and scorn the masses would heap upon them once such a scandal became known. Refusing to get involved was the right thing to do.

Still, a little voice in his mind said he should not have dismissed Tuor so quickly, so callously; yet another whispered that he should have stayed, should have given Idril the chance to speak her part. But it was the thought of what she might say, the look of betrayal on her face when she discovered the truth, that kept him from going home or anywhere that either of them might be able to seek him out.

By the end of the week, though, the ones who sought him were getting impatient.

“Tuor is looking for you,” was Ecthelion’s opening line, as he joined Elemmakil and Voronwë under the white marble pergola. It was heavy with sweet-smelling, bright purple wisteria, hanging low over their heads as they sat at a pretty little table with afternoon tea spread out before them. Having been their guest for several days, Voronwë could not fault the care and hospitality of the House of the Fountain; he had been welcomed warmly by all of Ecthelion’s vassals and staff, and his every need had been provided for the moment he expressed it.

“He has been looking for me all week, no doubt,” Voronwë said, staring morosely into his teacup.

“Yes, but now he has decided to bother the King about it,” Ecthelion said, seating himself at the table. As Elemmakil poured him a cup, Ecthelion gave Voronwë a serious look. “If His Majesty presses me about it, I cannot hide that you are here.”

“Of course. You have been gracious enough to allow me to stay these past few days without asking after my business,” Voronwë said.

“Your business is your own, of course,” Ecthelion said, but Voronwë could see the curiosity flashing in his eyes. “Tuor did seem rather agitated,” he added.

He was clearly fishing for information, but Voronwë thought he owed him at least something, after turning up on Elemmakil’s doorstep in the middle of the night and begging him to talk his liege lord into giving Voronwë a guest bedroom. Ever polite, Ecthelion had done so, though Voronwë suspected that had more to do with his status as a member of the King’s House than Elemmakil’s request. “We… argued,” he said, looking away over the bright lawn to the flowerbeds beyond.

Ecthelion was not impolite enough to ask what about, merely accepting the explanation with a nod of his head. Elemmakil, of course, knew the truth, but he stayed quiet. “Well, my home is open to you for as long as you need it,” Ecthelion said. “But if Tuor discovers you are here, I cannot prevent him from visiting you.”

“I would not ask you to put yourself between us,” Voronwë said. After a moment of playing with the handle of his teacup, he sighed heavily. “I cannot keep putting it off; we must talk, and try to reconcile.” He looked up at Ecthelion. “Do you know where he is now?”

“After we left our meeting with the King, I believe he stayed at the palace,” Ecthelion said.

After bidding them both goodbye, Voronwë made his way from Ecthelion’s bright, peaceful home across the bustle of the city to the King’s Square. Above his head the Tower of the King soared, lofty and graceful, dazzlingly white in the noonday sun. Voronwë was not at the right angle to see the highest balcony, to catch a glimpse of whether Turgon was up there, contemplating his own questions and worries as he looked out over his city.

However, almost the moment he stepped through the doors of the palace, a servant scurried up to him and said, “The King wishes to see you, my lord.”

Voronwë felt a jolt of nerves in his stomach. If Tuor had been complaining of his absence among the other lords of Gondolin, then this probably was not anything good. “Where is he?” Voronwë asked.

“On his balcony, my lord. Shall I-?”

Voronwë shook his head. “I know the way.”

Being the tallest tower in the city, the climb up the hundreds of stairs from the grand hall at the tower’s base to the King’s private balcony at the apex was long and taxing. Voronwë was breathing hard by the time he arrived, quite aware that he was red in the face, his hair in complete disarray. Still, no matter how awful he looked, he could not keep the King waiting.

Not that he _was_ waiting, Voronwë saw as he stepped into the room. On one side of the room was a comfortable seating area, on the other a grand desk and bookshelves, both empty; one whole wall was open to the sky, with ingenious glass panes that could be folded across the opening to protect the room in case of bad weather. Today, with the sun high in the sky, they were open, letting in a cool breeze and merry sounds from the city, but Turgon was not leaning against the balustrade or pacing under the sunshine.

Voronwë breathed a sigh of relief. Looking left and right, he spotted the mirror he remembered being on the shelves by the desk, and hurried over. Having come expecting to find Tuor and Idril, neither his clothes or hairstyle were appropriate for meeting the King; the first he could not change, but if he worked quickly, he could tame his dishevelled mane into something more presentable.

Voronwë vastly preferred simple, practical styles that kept his hair off his face, but current fashion in Gondolin was to keep much of one’s hair loose and flowing, pulling only small pieces back and accentuating the face with artfully placed curls or wispy strands of hair. He combed it all out with his fingers, then selected his strands and began to twist them into a braid, intending to pin it at the back of his head. He cursed under his breath as the strands slipped through his fingers; he was going too fast, ever aware that at any moment the King could walk up through the open stairwell.

When one side was finally done, he moved to the other, twisting to try and see it in the mirror. He dropped a strand again, then mixed up which one he was pulling through which-

So distracted, he only noticed the person behind him when their hands plucked the tangled strands of hair out his fingers.

He jumped, and a voice said, “Let me help you.”

For a horrible moment Voronwë had thought it was Turgon behind him; he was not sure if he felt any better on hearing Tuor’s voice instead. After a second of hesitation, he obediently dropped his hands and let Tuor wind the strands together with practised ease. He was much better at it than Voronwë had ever been, and had sometimes insisted on doing Voronwë’s hair for balls, rather than leaving it to his servant. Belatedly Voronwë thought he probably should had read more into that than he had.

Tuor wound the braid together perfectly, pinned it, then un-twisted the other side of Voronwë’s hair and re-did that, all in silence. Voronwë felt shivers running down his back, the familiar gestures now seeming more intimate than they ever had before.

When he was done, Tuor laid both hands on Voronwë’s shoulders, and their eyes met in the mirror. “After all,” he said quietly, “I am the one who convinced you to grow it out.”

Voronwë could not help but smile at the memory. When he had been a sailor, he had kept his hair to the shorter, practical length that all elves engaged in hard labour wore. Though it was not appropriate for a nobleman of his status, for the first two years in Gondolin he had kept the style, preferring it; but through a combination of pleas and begging, Tuor had eventually convinced him to grow it out again. The Man’s hair was not suitable to be worn long and flowing like an elven nobleman’s, but he very much admired such styles on others. Thinking back on it, Voronwë wondered again that he had not found that strange, that Tuor cared so much what his hair looked like. _The signs were there_ , he thought, _but I did not want to see them._

Tuor’s hand brushed across his hair again, the strands moving smoothly through his fingers. “You have been hiding,” he said softly, his breath brushing Voronwë’s ear.

Voronwë could not help another shiver. “I am sorry.”

Using the grip on his shoulder, Tuor turned him so they were facing each other. For a moment Voronwë thought Tuor would kiss him again, but instead he cradled his face in both hands and just looked at him, seeming to drink in the sight of his face. “I missed you,” he whispered.

“And I you,” Voronwë admitted.

“I did not wish to scare you away,” Tuor said, his thumb stroking across Voronwë’s cheek. “I pray you will never leave again.”

Voronwë wanted, more than anything, to promise that he would not; but instead his eyes slid away, and he started, “Tuor…”

Then he caught the sound of light footsteps on the stairwell, and he hurriedly stepped away from Tuor’s embrace. The tread did not sound heavy enough to be the King, and indeed a few seconds later the head that appeared was bright gold rather than dark. “Your Highness,” Voronwë said, feeling suddenly flustered and discomforted as Idril stepped into the room.

She regarded him with raised eyebrows. “You have not called me ‘your highness’ in private for many years, Voronwë.”

“He is a little jumpy,” Tuor said, a laugh in his voice. “I think he is expecting your father.”

Idril could not hide an amused smile; looking between her face and Tuor’s wide grin, Voronwë knew he had been played for a fool. “He is not coming, is he?”

“He is down beyond the walls inspecting some horse with Glorfindel,” Tuor said.

“You are both horrors,” Voronwë groused, which only made the two of them laugh.

“We had to get you alone somehow,” Idril said.

“I was coming to see you anyway,” Voronwë said mulishly. “Since you were apparently making a fuss in front of the King.”

Tuor’s eyes lit up. “Ah ha! The only ones in that meeting were the Lords and the King, so you must have been hiding with one of them.”

“Maybe,” Voronwë said.

“I am sure I can work it out,” Idril said. “But later. That is, after all, not what we are here to talk about.”

The bubble of happiness that seemed always to envelope him in their presence suddenly popped, and Voronwë felt a sick churning in his stomach. He opened his mouth, but could think of no way to start.

Idril looked at him seriously for a moment before she said, “Voronwë, if you do not wish to be with us, you need only say. We will not force you into anything.”

Voronwë stared at her for a few seconds, mute with disbelief. “Us?” he managed eventually.

“I told you she loved you also,” Tuor said smugly.

“Is that your worry?” Idril asked, her expression halfway between disbelieving and sympathetic. “Voronwë, have we not been a three all this time? Fitting so naturally together?”

Voronwë swallowed, his throat dry. “I had not had cause to believe you ever thought of me that way.”

“I did not, before your return,” Idril said, “But seeing you through Tuor’s eyes showed me what I had missed before.” She smiled gently. “We three have come together and formed a perfect triangle over these last eight years, have we not? The foundation of the House of the Wing could not have been laid by Tuor and I alone; you were, and are, a key part of it.” She stepped forward, taking one of Tuor’s hands in hers. With the other hand, she reached out to Voronwë. “We had been trying to accept that you did not feel the same way, but now that we know you do… how can we not want this? The three of us, together?”

Tuor extended his hand also, and Voronwë wanted nothing more than to accept, to take their hands. Still, even with heaven right there within reach, he could not help but hesitate. “Your father will never approve of… this,” he said, gesturing weakly between the three of them.

“Maybe not officially,” Idril acknowledged, “But it does not need to be official to be real.”

“Aye,” Tuor agreed quietly, “In the eyes of the Valar and Ilúvatar Himself, we will claim you as our husband. That is all that truly matters.”

A small part of Voronwë’s heart still urged caution, that in the end the decision to buck tradition and good sense would come back to haunt him; but the greater part of him was filled with a joy so great he could not have described it in words, and it quickly overwhelmed that small voice, rising like the rushing tide and overtaking every part of him.

Unable to say a word, he reached out and took both their hands - and, all crying and laughing at the same time, the three of them drew each other into a close embrace.

It was many more weeks before Voronwë again laid eyes on the Havens at Sirion.

Without their fair ship, the journey home had had to be undertaken on foot, and it was a long and dangerous journey. First they had followed the coast down to the ruins of Vinyamar; given that Nevrast was now sparsely populated by any but animals, this had been the easy leg of their journey. After Vinyamar, they had not been able to continue following the coast, as the once-bright coastal havens of Brithombar and Eglarest had been overrun by orcs and were now nests of horror and evil. They had to turn inland and follow the Ered Wethrin east, avoiding the highlands around the coast, until they reached the Woods of Núath. From there they again turned south, passing stealthily across the plain and through the Taur-en-Faroth, keeping an equal distance between the evil at Eglarest and the blighted ruins of Nargothrond. From Faroth it was another straight walk south across the plains until they reached the Birchwood of Nimbrethil, by which time they were in the lands where hunters from Sirion walked.

Though they had managed to salvage a good quantity of sailcloth from Alqarámë’s wreck, which along with some spars and a bit of rope had served to make functional tents, Voronwë still thought with longing of his warm bed at home. It lifted his heart to see the simple buildings and wide quays of the Havens come in sight on the horizon.

The guards at the gate were astounded to see them, and ushered them quickly inside. Voronwë’s heart was light as they walked through the town, as people on the street called surprised greetings, and by the time they reached the pretty wooden house on the quayside, he was smiling.

Elwing, waiting outside the door, was smiling too, but her smile held an edge of sorrow.

Eärendil ran forward and enfolded her in his arms, and Voronwë was content to slip past them and into the house. He stood for a moment in the centre of the main room, breathing in the soft, warm air; the smell of home. Shapes on the walls caught his eye, and he moved over, a little smile creasing his lips. He ran his hands over the familiar carven lines, thinking back to the similar artwork Tuor had created in his little cottage at Falasquil. Voronwë had spent a long time looking at those carvings Tuor had left behind, running his fingers over the grooved wood and letting his heart accept, little by little, that Tuor truly was gone - but he had left a lot of good behind. Feeling sentimental, Voronwë leant forward and pressed a soft kiss to the swooping figure of Tuor’s favourite animal, the swan.

The air of calm peace was instantly shattered by one word. He heard Eärendil’s voice outside cry out, “ _What_?!” in the same tone of voice one might use when told the world was ending; of course, Voronwë immediately rushed outside.

“What is wrong?”

Eärendil’s face was stricken. “Mother is gone,” he said.

For a moment Voronwë could do nothing more than stare at him. “Gone? Gone where?”

“It is complicated,” Elwing said, “Let me tell you inside.”

Seated around the long dining table, Elwing twisted her teacup in her hand, the same way she always did when she was nervous. “Idril was well here for a while,” she started, “She was composing feverishly, day and night; but she always went out to check, at morning and early evening, for any sign of you returning. As the months went on, she became more and more restless. After a while she started going out on little trips, claiming to be looking for you or for Tuor; though we all knew she was unlikely to find you, none of us wanted to stop her. After all, she has taken so many trips out in her boat alone, and always come home.” Elwing heaved a heavy sigh. “That is, until she did not come home.

“Of course, we raised the alarm and went looking for her. The fisher folk all abandoned their work for five days and nights, and the King’s galleons went far and wide, scanning the coastline; but we found no trace of her.” Elwing hesitated, and said in a lower voice, “Then, on the seventh day, I had a strange dream. In it, the Lord of Waters appeared before me, and said that Idril and Tuor are in His care now. He told me not to worry, as they are safe.” She bowed her head and stared at the tabletop, adding in a whisper, “But how can I not worry?”

The silence, oppressive and heavy, stretched. Voronwë knew the numbness in his chest was shock, and that the muted aching would soon become lancing pain.

Abruptly, Eärendil stood up from the table and left the room, the front door banging behind him. For a second Elwing and Voronwë sat frozen in his wake; then Elwing jumped to her feet, looked at Voronwë, and hesitated.

“Go,” Voronwë said, “Do not let him do anything rash.”

Elwing nodded, and ran after her husband, swift as a fleeing shadow.

Voronwë sat on his own at the table for a long time afterward. When the sick, aching hollowness in his chest became too much, he stood up and walked up the hill, entering the Town Hall. The building served as an administrative centre for the city; most of the people there he knew, and a lot of eyes followed him as he walked toward the stairs, but none approached. Apparently the look on his face said all they needed to know.

He had shut up his own office before leaving for the sea, and had kept the key on a chain around his neck, along with the key for their home. He opened up the door and stepped in, closing his eyes as he shut it behind him. The room smelled slightly musty, exactly like a room full of parchment that no one had cleaned or dusted in several months.

After a moment he went to the desk, rummaged around for a quill and an unopened bottle of ink, and wrote down several names. Then he opened the door again and strode down the corridor to an assistant’s office, opening the door after a cursory knock. The assistant, Lachon, looked up with a start. “Lord Voronwë?” he asked, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head.

“Lachon,” Voronwë said, nodding a greeting. “I need you to find the addresses of everyone on this list. I would like to inform their families personally of their deaths.”

Lachon looked rather shocked, but he nodded as he accepted the list. “As my lord commands,” he murmured. “Um…it is good to see you back safe, my lord.”

Voronwë could only nod.

/

Informing the deceased sailors’ families took up the rest of his day, and though they appreciated that he had come in person, it was still a grim and sorrowful affair. It only got worse when they, naturally, expressed their sympathy for his own loss. He stayed at each house as long as was polite, then took his leave.

Voronwë had developed as little taste for paperwork as he had for leadership, but ‘doing paperwork’ was a good excuse, when he wanted to sit in his office and be left alone. Not feeling able to face going back to the house, he hid behind that excuse until long into the night, when he could finally no longer justify using up their stock of candles.

The house was quiet when he let himself in, neither light nor sound coming from under Eärendil and Elwing’s door. Voronwë went into his own room, and then stopped, staring at the bed.

Sentimental romantic that he was, Tuor had abhorred the three of them sleeping separately. He had crafted the bed with his own hands, big enough for five people, let alone three.

Standing before it now it seemed larger than life, a huge expanse of soft white bedsheets without end. Voronwë tried to imagine sleeping in it alone, and could only imagine getting lost, engulfed in an boundless ocean of white. Even looking at it felt as if something was squeezing the very life out of his chest.

Short of breath, he bolted back downstairs and out of the house, ending up perched on the edge of a little-used quayside. When he tipped his head back and beheld the belt of brilliant shimmering stars laid out above him, they seemed to quench his pain and calm his mind - and before he knew what had happened, dawn was breaking in the eastern sky.

He continued to sit, listening to the waves and calls of seabirds. It was far from the first time he had spent an entire night absorbed in contemplation of the stars - and it was better than whatever dreams would have haunted him in his own bed.

Something on the horizon caught his eye; as he watched, the little speck of white got bigger and bigger, until eventually it resolved into a ship. It grew and grew as it came closer, until Voronwë realised it was one of the King’s galleons.

With a thump, someone sat down next to him. He did not need to look to see who it was. “I wonder if we shall soon be receiving the King,” he said, nodding toward the ship cutting its way through the waves toward them.

“I am not in the mood to receive anyone,” Eärendil muttered.

“Neither am I, at present, but duty calls.”

Eärendil just grumbled something under his breath.

“How are you?” Voronwë asked, his voice softer.

Eärendil stared out to sea for several minutes without answering, his expression dark. “How should I be?” he muttered, glaring at the western horizon. “My parents are both gone in such mysterious ways, and yet I am told I should simply accept it. I am told I have an important destiny, and yet I have not the least inkling of what it is or how to achieve it.” He heaved a sigh. “I am sorry; I know it must be infinitely worse for you.”

There was a raw wound deep inside Voronwë’s chest, a great bleeding cavern that he was too afraid to look at, much less touch. It was easier to distract himself, with daily affairs, with the stars, with the sound of the sea. “I will weather it, as I have survived everything before,” Voronwë said, trying to inject into his voice a surety that he did not feel.

Eärendil’s shrewd look told him that he was not fooled, but he said nothing.

Later, once the galleon had weighed anchor and her passengers had come ashore, they discovered the King had not come after all; it was Círdan alone who alighted on the quayside. Once they had exchanged brief greetings - Círdan was not one for pointless speech - the old mariner turned a frown on the stretch of empty quayside where Alqarámë had once been moored. “I was sad to hear of her destruction,” he said, “Our shipwrights had not had chance to build such a fine ship in many a year.”

Eärendil ducked his head. “I am sorry; the fault was mine.”

Círdan shook his head. “The sea will do as it wills; no one hand is responsible for any wreck.” His look turned contemplative, and when he said no more, Voronwë suggested they all move somewhere out of the wind.

The Havens had only the Town Hall in which to greet distinguished guests, but Círdan waved away Voronwë’s suggestion that they go there. In truth, Voronwë had only made it for politeness sake; he knew Círdan would be far more comfortable simply sitting at their kitchen table.

He never failed to get straight to the point. Elwing was still gathering together a spread of refreshments when Círdan started pulling scrolls from his knapsack and spreading them out on the table. When Voronwë turned one around to inspect it, he found they were, as he had suspected, construction drawings for a new ship.

Eärendil merely watched, stone-faced, so Voronwë said, “They are wonderful - when did you begin sketching these?”

“My pen is ever busy, when I have a moment,” Círdan said. “The distinct shape of this vessel began to take form in my mind a month or two ago; when the news came that you were wrecked and Alqarámë destroyed, I knew this ship would be her replacement.”

Despite his dark mood, Eärendil could not hold back his curiosity. His eyes scanned over the drawings with interest, and he traced the lines of them with a finger. “She will be even bigger and more beautiful than Alqarámë,” he murmured.

Círdan nodded. “The better for longer expeditions into deeper and more treacherous waters.”

Voronwë thought he saw a shadow pass over Elwing’s face at those words, but then she looked down at the drawing in her hands, her hair hiding her expression from view. “How long will it take to build?” she asked quietly.

“A year, perhaps two, if we encounter complications,” Círdan said.

Eärendil frowned, his eyes still on the papers in his hands. “The Lord of Waters has told me in no uncertain terms that I should search not for my parents, for they are not on any shore that I can reach,” he said, “Why then have I need of a ship?”

Unexpectedly, Círdan laughed. “Eärendil, the sea-longing is stronger in you than any I have yet seen before, save perhaps your father; what mariner can bear not to have a ship of his own, that he may set out each time he hears the sea call?” Still smiling, he added in a quieter voice, “And if the Lord of Waters says you have a greater purpose, than a greater purpose we must believe you have. It may be that not all paths into the West are yet blocked.”

His words seemed to sit heavily in Eärendil’s mind, and for a long time he did not speak, looking down at the table in thought. Voronwë engaged Círdan in a discussion on some the finer points of shipbuilding, a subject in which he was still sorely ignorant, despite being a sailor himself, and the time passed until the sun was high in the sky at noon.

Only when their chatter had died out did Eärendil finally speak. “Thank you, Círdan, for again lending us your aid,” he said, “I can only hope that whatever my destiny holds, it will be worthy of a ship of such magnificence.”

Again, Círdan chuckled. “The Lord of Waters does not speak to every common sailor on the sea, Eärendil,” he said. “Come; there is no time to waste. Let us begin.”


	2. Part Two - Despair

_Book Two - Despair_

_Balar, F.A. 489_

_Thirty-eight years earlier_

In all the bright revelry of Balar’s Great Hall, it seemed to Voronwë there was only face that was downcast.

“Come now, Ereinion,” he said, “You cannot still be sulking.”

“I am not _sulking_ ,” the young prince said hotly.

Voronwë raised his eyebrows at him.

Ereinion looked away. “Alright, maybe I am sulking a little,” he muttered.

They sat side by side at the High Table, the Great Hall alive with music and laughter all around them. The meal had long since been finished and given way to dancing, though there was still food left on the tables for guests to pick it. Ereinion was pushing vegetables around his plate and pouting, looking much younger than his thirty-nine years as he mourned, “It is only that tomorrow you will be gone, and I will be alone again.”

“You will hardly be alone,” Voronwë laughed. “You have all my boisterous young cousins from the Falas, for starters.” Voronwë was not entirely sure if all of them were his cousins in the strictest, Noldorin sense of the word, but among the Sindar actual degree of blood relation often mattered less than similarity in age. There were many young noblemen and women of around Ereinion’s age or a little older who had escaped with Círdan and the prince from the Falas, all of whom affectionately called Ereinion ‘little brother’. As he was slightly older and more senior, they referred to Voronwë as their ‘cousin’ - not that that meant they always gave him the respect such seniority supposedly conferred, of course.

“Yes, I have them, I suppose.” Ereinion looked a little cheered by that fact, but only for a moment.

“And there must be more young people of noble rank on Balar,” Voronwë said.

Ereinion’s mouth twisted. “Precious few.” He sighed, and turned imploring eyes on Voronwë. “Are you _sure_ you cannot have me sent to Gondolin?”

Voronwë shook his head, sighing affectionately. “Ereinion, you have been asking about going to Gondolin ever since I got here. I will tell you again; I do not have the power and influence to effect such a thing. Besides, Círdan is your guardian, and if he says you shall not go, then you shall not.”

“It would be more appropriate for my uncle to be my guardian,” Ereinion said.

“That it might, in the eyes of the Noldor; but your father left you in Círdan’s care.”

A shadow of grief passed over Ereinion’s face, and Voronwë reached out to take his hand. “I know it is easy to feel that you are alone and forgotten, out here,” he said, “But Ereinion, the King has not forgotten about you; he has not called you to Gondolin simply because he feels it is unwise to trust all one’s eggs to the same basket. After all, do not forget, if anything should happen to him, you will be the next High King of the Noldor.”

“I suppose,” Ereinion said, but he looked glum. “Still, it seems unfair that I will _never_ get to see the city, or meet my uncle and cousins, just because we _might_ be attacked by the Enemy.”

“Maybe so - but you are safer here.” Both from the Enemy and from other concerns, Voronwë thought privately. He had a suspicion that Ereinion’s cousin fancied himself as Turgon’s heir to both Gondolin and the High Kingship, and he was not entirely sure Maeglin would be above nefarious means to achieve such a goal. No, far better that Ereinion stay here under Círdan’s care, at least for now.

“But you could take a letter to him, when you go back!” Ereinion said, his face brightening.

 _If I go back_ , Voronwë thought, but again he did not voice such a dark thought. “Will it please you if I agree to that?” At Ereinion’s eager nod, Voronwë laughed. “Fine. When I come back, I will take your letter to the King. You had best make it a good one, though.”

“Of course,” Ereinion said, beaming.

“Come on, then,” Voronwë said, standing. “If you have shaken off your melancholy, let us celebrate our final night together!”

Ereinion laughed, and followed him onto the dance floor. As they joined the dance and began to weave in and out of the lines and circles, indiscriminately grasping friends’ and strangers’ hands alike, Voronwë watched Ereinion. He did not much remember Fingon beyond a blurry, indistinct figure, his dark hair shining with his famous golden-threaded braids. Many said that Ereinion looked much like him, but Voronwë would not have been able to tell. There was definitely something of Aredhel in the shape of his face, though, and a hint of Turgon in the brow and around the eyes. He was young and bright, not oft given to melancholy, and though he complained of being disconnected from his Noldorin heritage, Voronwë knew Círdan had taught him impeccably. Though boisterous, he was sensible underneath; with a little more maturity, he would be a solid, dependable ruler.

Later, when they had both had a little more to drink than was sensible, Ereinion was leaning heavily on his shoulder as Voronwë helped him back toward his rooms. “I am a bad cousin, to let you drink this much,” Voronwë laughed.

“Are you saying I cannot hold my liquor, Voronwë?” Ereinion demanded. The way he swayed slightly from side to side rather undermined his point.

“Yes,” Voronwë laughed, and dodged the ineffectual shove Ereinion sent toward his shoulder.

Eventually he helped Ereinion into his rooms, where he insisted on them going out to the balcony for ‘one last nightcap’ to send Voronwë off. Knowing this might be the last time they ever spent together, Voronwë indulged him, and poured them both glasses of a very fine, clear liquor. As he handed it off to Ereinion, the young prince smiled up at him and said, “Do you remember how we met, Voronwë?”

Voronwë laughed, sitting down opposite with his own glass in hand. “Yes, very clearly.”

“‘A Noldo on a raft’, they told me.”

“It seemed to greatly amuse the fisher folk who found me,” Voronwë said. “I believe I said to them, ‘Even a Noldo cannot craft a boat without tools’.”

That made Ereinion laugh. “They were certainly very excited to come and tell me about you when they learnt you were from Gondolin.”

“I seem to remember someone else was excited enough to give Círdan the slip and come down to the river bank to meet me,” Voronwë said teasingly.

“Of course I had to receive our honoured guest who had come all the way from Gondolin,” Ereinion grinned.

The memory of that day was still clear and fresh in Voronwë’s mind. A strangely powerful wind had borne him and his willow-raft out of the north and down to the meandering delta of Sirion, where fisher folk casting their nets in the shallows had found him. He had expected his first meeting with any personages of great importance to happen when he arrived on Balar; instead, when he had pulled his dishevelled and muddy self onto the firm bank of the Sirion, there had been a grinning, handsome young elf in fine clothes to waiting greet him. Ereinion had not even waited to be introduced; instead he had rushed over and taken Voronwë’s hands, greeting him like an old friend. Voronwë, bemused but charmed, had greeted him in a similarly casual manner, only to be filled with horrified mortification when one of Ereinion’s grim-faced guards had addressed him as ‘Your Highness’. “You are Prince Gil-Galad?” he had blurted.

Ereinion had waved his embarrassment away, and asked after his own name and title. “Which House are you from? Fountain? Heavenly Arch? Golden Flower?”

“I am of the House of the King,” Voronwë had said, still reeling from being blindsided by the revelation of Ereinion’s identity. “I am a cousin by marriage to Princess Idril.”

“Then you are my cousin also,” Ereinion had said, squeezing Voronwë’s hands in his - and they had been all but inseparable for the two years since.

“Now you look sad, my friend,” Ereinion said, “Could it be that you are reconsidering abandoning me for the sea?”

“No, I could not shirk my duty and ignore the King’s command,” Voronwë said, “But it will hurt to leave. And if I may be honest, a sense of foreboding plagues me; I cannot help but remember that none who have gone forth have yet returned…”

“Do not remind me,” Ereinion said, staring down into his drink.

“I would not, but when I have nothing to distract me, the thought all but consumes my mind.”

“The shores of Endórë are vast,” Ereinion said quietly, “We do not know that they are lost.”

Voronwë inclined his head, and for a time they did not speak.

“Why did the King choose you for this mission, Voronwë?” Ereinion asked after a while.

“Because I begged him to let me go,” Voronwë said, a slight smile curving his mouth. “Before this quest, I have spent all but the first nine years of my life in Gondolin; I longed to see what lay beyond the city, in the wide world. It took much convincing, but I did not let the matter go until the King agreed.”

His voice hushed, Ereinion asked, “And do you… do you really think you will find the way into the West?”

Voronwë lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I do not know,” he said honestly. His smile grew a little wider as he said, “But even if I do not - what a grand adventure it shall be.”

Coming home late from an evening taken up by a meeting with all the trappers and hunters in town, Voronwë found Eärendil sitting alone by the fire in their cosy sitting room. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees as he stared into the fire, his eyes glazed as if he saw images in the flames like visions reflected in a Seer’s mirror.

He did not stir when Voronwë sat down beside him. “What keeps you up so late?” he asked quietly.

It took a moment before Eärendil spoke. “My ship will be finished tomorrow.”

Voronwë sighed, knowing without needing to ask why an event that was supposed to be a celebration instead troubled Eärendil’s mind. “You do not have to go immediately. You are only newly a father; you could stay a little while-”

Eärendil cut him off with a shake of his head. “The shadow of Morgoth lengthens day by day,” he said, his voice low. “Who knows how much time we truly have? If we could but find the path to Valinor-”

“The way West is shut,” Voronwë said sharply.

“So they say - but where else are we to go? South? East? Morgoth’s dominion reaches near every corner of Arda; there is now no power that can oppose him, save the might of the Blessed Land.” He shook his head. “I cannot cower here and wait for Morgoth’s armies to destroy this place, to kill my family.”

“No one who goes West ever comes back. They are all lost,” Voronwë said.

“I am destined,” Eärendil said, turning his piercing gaze on Voronwë. “I may be the exception.”

Voronwë had to look away first. “Come; we have had this argument so many times,” he sighed. “If I cannot turn you from your path, I cannot turn you from it; but I will share in all your perils, great and small.”

“I would have no other beside me,” Eärendil murmured.

Voronwë could only nod, and for a moment the silence lay heavy upon them. “Well, have you decided what you are going to name the ship?” Voronwë asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Vingilótë,” Eärendil said, a small smile coming to his face. “Vingilot in Sindarin.”

“Poetic and appropriate,” Voronwë said, “I like it.”

“Good, because it took me a damn long time to come up with it.”

Voronwë laughed, and he smiled to remember that moment the next day, when one of Círdan’s craftsmen put the finishing touches on the word ‘Vingilot’ where it was carved into the ship’s prow. It was the final embellishment on what was the most beautiful ship Voronwë had ever seen; her timbers were white, her oars golden, her every curve smooth, her mast standing tall and proud like a young tree over the perfect timbers of her deck. Her prow was shaped in the likeness of a swan, neck bent in a graceful arc, and when her sails unfurled and filled with wind for the first time, they sparkled silver with all the beauty of the full moon.

They launched her in the balmy sun of a midsummer afternoon, with crowds of people lining the quays to see them off, cheering and waving as Vingilot passed the harbour’s mouth and beat out into the open sea.

One of the King’s magnificent galleons was waiting in the bay; as her sailors saw Vingilot’s pure white form pull away from the harbour and come speeding toward them they weighed anchor, the ship’s sails filling with the brisk wind. Eärendil trimmed Vingilot’s sails so that they might not leave the galleon behind, and laughed as he waved up at the deck. When Voronwë turned to look, he spied Elwing standing on the forward deck, one of the boys held in her arms, with Ereinion beside her holding the other. They were too far to see the expressions on their faces, but both raised an arm to wave back.

Thus did Vingilot sail her maiden voyage across the bay to Balar, where they put in to less numerous but still enthusiastic cheers. The shipwrights here all knew of their fellows’ undertaking across the bay, and were eager to converse with Eärendil about how the first voyage had gone; thus they were still standing on the quay talking when Ereinion, Elwing and the boys arrived in a longboat rowed from the galleon.

Ereinion had invited them to a farewell dinner in his palace on Balar, that they might be ‘sent off in style’, to use his words. Though the food and music were plentiful and the crowd was cheery, Voronwë found he could not shake his own melancholy mood; he stared with disinterest into the depths of his glass, dark thoughts swirling inside his head.

“Ah, here is one sailor who dreads to leave harbour,” he heard Ereinion’s voice say beside him, a mix of teasing and sympathy in his tone.

“Had you seen what I have, you would have no wish to go back to it,” Voronwë said, then winced at his sharp tone. “I am sorry-”

“You do not have to be sorry,” Ereinion said, laying a hand on his shoulder. He took the seat next to Voronwë, his expression turning grave. “Do you truly think Eärendil has no chance of finding what he seeks?”

Voronwë chewed over his words for a moment before replying. “He is destined for something; I have heard as much from the mouth of Lord Ulmo Himself. But no one who goes West ever comes back - and sometimes they go mad trying.”

“And yet you are still going?”

“I have tried to talk sense into him many times, but Eärendil will not hear me. And I cannot let him go alone.”

Ereinion nodded, and did not speak for a moment. “It is strange to be here again,” he said quietly, “Celebrating you setting off into the West.”

Voronwë’s smile was without humour. “I was much more hopeful then.”

“Yes. Much was different then,” Ereinion murmured.

Voronwë reached up to cover Ereinion’s hand on his shoulder with his own. “Yes, much has changed,” he said quietly, “You are quite different now from the eager, wide-eyed boy who saw me off.”

“Ha.” Ereinion shook his head. “At times I feel like him still, inside.”

“You have become a good King for your people, Ereinion,” Voronwë said sincerely. Then he sighed and added, “Though sometimes I wonder if it is right for someone so young to look at times so grave.”

“I suppose we are both older, grimmer and wiser,” Ereinion said.

Voronwë snorted. “Older, maybe, but I am not sure I am wiser - after all, am I not still leaping headlong into the same impossible quest?”

Ereinion smiled a little. “Well, even if it is impossible - I pray that you find what you are looking for, my friend.”

“As do I.” Voronwë shut his eyes and said, quieter, “But if the worst does come - look after Elwing and the boys for us. She has lost so much already; losing Eärendil…”

“Any aid I can give is theirs, and will be always,” Ereinion promised solemnly.

Unable to speak, Voronwë gripped his wrist, nodding his thanks.

Just then a voice spoke up beside them, breaking the serious mood. “Voronwë! There you are!”

Voronwë turned, forcing a smile. “I had wondered when you would show up, Ilfrin.”

A cousin on his mother’s side, Ilfrin was young and overly impetuous; still, he was earnest, and his grin as he claimed the seat on Voronwë’s other side was so infectious that Voronwë found his own smile in return became more natural and easy. Ilfrin gave Ereinion a significant look, and said, “Your majesty, are you…?”

“Ah, yes.” Suddenly Ereinion looked a little embarrassed. “Voronwë, actually, I had promised Ilfrin that I would ask…”

Voronwë could immediately tell it was something he would not like. “What is it?” he asked cautiously.

“Ilfrin has expressed a wish to go on your journey with you.”

Voronwë turned on Ilfrin with a frown. “What? _Why?_ ”

“Why not?” Ilfrin countered. “I am a good sailor, but I have never been allowed to go further than thirty miles from the island! Now you are going on a grand quest-”

“A very dangerous quest,” Voronwë interrupted. “If your mother knew-”

“She does know,” Ilfrin said, looking very smug.

Voronwë glanced at Ereinion, and saw with a sinking stomach that he was nodding in confirmation. “How in Arda did you convince her to let you go?”

“I told her you were on a quest to save all of Arda,” Ilfrin said matter-of-factly. “I think she likes the idea of her son being on the ship that will finally make it into the West.”

“There is no guarantee our quest will succeed.”

Ilfrin shrugged. “There is no guarantee that it will not.”

Voronwë sighed heavily, and shifted his eyes back to Ereinion. “And you really approved of this?”

Ereinion spread his hands, a helpless expression on his face. “’Tis the truth - Ilfrin is a good sailor.”

Ilfrin seemed to swell with pride at that, and he added, “And I know you could use another hand.”

Voronwë shook his head. “Very well; since I am so strongly encouraged by His Majesty,” he said, shooting a look at Ereinion, who grimaced apologetically, “Welcome to the crew, cousin.”

“Yes!” Ilfrin leant over and impulsively hugged him, which finally startled a laugh out of Voronwë.

“Do not think I will not make you scrub the deck just because we are family, Ilfrin.”

“I will scrub the deck day and night!”

“He will hold you to that,” Ereinion said, and the three of them shared a laugh.

Once Ilfrin and Ereinion had excused themselves and melted back into the crowd, Voronwë got up and set off to look for Eärendil. It was late enough that they could turn in without causing offence, and he wanted to be away early in the morning. It would be good to inform him of their new crew member, too - not that Eärendil would object.

He heard Eärendil’s voice before he saw him, out of sight beyond a bend in the corridor, just off the Great Hall. He strode forward, but when he realised what his voice was saying, Voronwë paused.

“Please consider accepting Ereinion’s offer,” Eärendil said, his voice low. “You would be safer here - you, the boys, and the S-”

“No,” Elwing’s voice cut in, “I cannot leave my people leaderless.”

“They will have Lady Galadriel-”

“Lady Galadriel is not their queen,” Elwing said, her voice icy.

Eärendil sighed, and Voronwë grimaced silently to himself. This argument had been going on since Eärendil had announced his intention to leave. Ereinion had suggested Elwing and the boys come to stay with him on Balar, where they would be safer than at the Havens. Elwing, though, would not hear of leaving the people of Doriath behind.

“You have been on long journeys many times, and nothing happened,” Elwing said.

“That is no guarantee you will be safe this time.”

“There has been no movement from Amon Ereb these long years, why-”

“The Sons of Fëanor are not your only enemies, Elwing,” Eärendil said, “Morgoth sends more orcs southward every month-”

“And we will hold them off, with or without you,” Elwing said sharply. There was a silence, and then she said, her voice softer, “Eärendil, you have your duty, and I have mine. I will not ask you to stay, though in my heart I dearly wish you would; please, do not ask me to abandon my duty either.”

Eärendil heaved a heavy sigh. “Very well,” he said, his tone reluctant. “But keep yourself safe. Promise me.”

“Always,” Elwing said softly.

Feeling guilty for eavesdropping, Voronwë decided his words to Eärendil could wait, and turned back to the feast.

/

“Day so-many-I-have-lost-count of our great journey,” Ilfrin said, “And so far, we have found nothing.”

He was lying on the deck looking up at the sky, arms folded behind him to pillow his head. Aerandir, who was perched on the deck railing above him, nudged him in the ribs with the toe of his boot. “I thought you claimed to be an experienced sailor? Are you not used to such long voyages?”

“Our young master Ilfrin has barely sailed beyond the bay, my friend,” Erellont’s voice called from the helm, “How can he be used to it?”

“I had only thought we would have found _something_ by now,” Ilfrin said defensively.

“We will likely see a lot more empty ocean before we catch any sight of our destination, Ilfrin,” Aerandir said, not unkindly.

“Then what do you do to relieve boredom?” Ilfrin asked.

“ _Well_ -” Erellont’s voice started.

Sensing that he was about to say something inappropriate, Voronwë spoke up. “Whatever you do, let it be quiet,” he said, “Otherwise I will not be able to concentrate, and we will be lost for sure.”

The others obediently fell silent, and Aerandir and Ilfrin disappeared below decks to do who knew what. Voronwë sat at a table placed just forward of the raised stern deck, and across the table were spread a treasure trove of maps and charts, along with compasses and other navigational equipment. Sinking back into his work, Voronwë was quiet for a very long time - until he eventually let out a huff of frustration.

“Still not making sense?” Erellont asked from behind.

“Not a lick of it,” Voronwë growled. “We are somehow over a hundred miles off course without any seeming cause.”

“Currents?” Erellont suggested.

“Maybe.” Looking again at the maps, Voronwë shook his head. “That or magic.”

“So - if I dare ask the question - what heading should I set?”

Voronwë sighed and ran a hand over his face. “We can only go west.”

They followed the compass’ needle directly west over the next few days, but by some chance, illusion or spell, every time Voronwë checked his instruments he found they had only sailed further and further south. A sick feeling was beginning to eat at his heart; this was exactly how it had all started, last time.

After another week they had still made no further headway into the west, and were beginning to run low on fresh supplies. Voronwë feared having to make land, but their need was pressing, so when Falathar in the crow’s nest finally called, “Land! Land to the south!” they had no choice but to sail toward it.

The land here began with pristine white sand beaches, rising quickly into verdant emerald forests, lush with trees and flowers. They could hear the screeches and calls of birds and animals even from the water, but Voronwë counselled them not to land on the shore. “The Men who live here are protective of their forests, and do not like to let others walk in their land,” he said. “But if we sail up the coast a little ways, we should reach the bay of Mirädor, and the city there.”

Mirädor was the ancient name given to the bay by the sailors from the Falas who had once come far enough to scout this coast. When their ships had sailed here, the settlement at the mouth of the river that emptied into the bay had been little more than a village, not worthy in their eyes of a name distinct from the bay. But when Voronwë and his previous crew had arrived, they had found it grown into a bustling city, swelled and rich from sitting on the busy trade route between the peoples of the southern archipelagos and the folk from the verdant forests of Pel just across the mountains. It seemed they had only seen more prosperity in the intervening years; as they sailed around the Cape of Dael and came in sight of the city, Voronwë could see that Mirkan’s extensive harbours were already choked with ships of all shapes and sizes. Thus it was practicality as well as caution that made him say, “We should anchor Vingilot here in the bay, and go ashore in the smaller boat.”

For the landing party he of course picked himself, who had once walked here before; next came Eärendil, both as their leader and for the knowledge of Taliska that Tuor had imparted to him, which was used in Mirkan as a trade language; and finally Falathar, who, though usually taciturn, was an elf of great age and experience, and had travelled in these southern lands before.

Ilfrin, of course, was unhappy about being made to stay, and Voronwë could see the longing in Aerandir’s eyes when they rested on the city in the distance, though he did not make any protest. Erellont, on the other hand, seemed quite pleased with the idea of being allowed to stay on the ship and enjoy the sunshine. “Take care of her,” Voronwë admonished, and all three of them replied that they would, with greater and lesser degrees of enthusiasm.

Finding a space at the busy docks to moor even their tiny rowing boat was a challenge, but they found a free ring to tie up to in the end, and despite having to haggle what he assumed was a ‘docking fee’ in broken Taliska with a very grumpy old man guarding the wharf, Voronwë was relieved to eventually get onto the streets of the city. Seeing Eärendil looking about in wide-eyed wonder, he said, “We should only stay long enough to refresh our supplies.”

“There must be many sailors here,” Eärendil said, “Maybe some of them know the way into the West.”

“I highly doubt it,” Voronwë said, eyeing the sailors gathered around them with scepticism. People from all over the southern regions gathered in Mirkan, and a huge selection of clothing, hair styles, jewelry and weaponry adorned the passersby. 

“It is worth a try,” Eärendil argued.

“They might know something,” Falathar put in mildly.

Seeing that he would not be dissuaded, Voronwë sighed. “Very well. Then let us find a tavern.”

Mirkan’s streets around the docks were small, winding and hot, the press of people uncomfortably close. Voronwë knew they widened into large avenues lined with gardens and palaces further into the city, but he did not turn in that direction; it was sailors they needed, not nobles.

The dock front tavern they settled on was already full to the brim with people - most of them Men of the South, with skin the colour of burnished bronze and dark eyes and hair. There were also Men from the deserts of Harad, their skin darker and their smiles startlingly white, as well as little groups of stout dwarves and a few Avari dotted through the crowd. Of course the three of them stood out, for their odd dress as much as their looks - but though they drew a few glances, the only one who paid them much mind was the barkeep. Eärendil managed to order them three tankards of something that looked close to mead, and they settled in at the bar.

“Well,” Voronwë said, gesturing expansively about, “Take your pick; who here do you think might know the way to sail West?”

He could see a flash of nerves cross Eärendil’s face as he looked over the crowd - but, not one to turn away from a challenge, he said, “I will see who among them is willing to speak to me.” Then he plunged off into the throngs of people.

“Be careful!” Voronwë called from behind him, and Eärendil raised a vague hand in acknowledgement.

The tavern was loud, shouting voices and music layering over each other in quite a cacophony; it was also incredibly hot and full of the smell of sweat, with other patrons pressed extremely close. Voronwë, used to the cool mountain climate of Gondolin, suffered particularly acutely in the heat; eventually Falathar pushed him out to sit in the shade of a tree in the tavern’s surprisingly fine drinking garden, promising that he would keep an eye on Eärendil inside.

It was the first time he had been truly alone in weeks. The garden was walled on each side, the bricks the same rust-red colour as most buildings in Mirkan; at the base of each wall was a deep flowerbed bursting with plants of every colour, and at each corner stood a tall tree with white bark and low-hanging branches. Out here the crowd was less rowdy, sitting around long tables with food and wine and speaking in softer voices, and he could clearly hear the melody that a young woman in the far corner of the garden was plucking on a long, thin, stringed instrument. Voronwë closed his eyes and leant back against one of the trees, letting the pretty notes wash over him, feeling peace for the first time since they had begun their journey. He was not aware of having fallen asleep until he woke again, his head pillowed on someone’s shoulder. “What-?”

“Awake?” Eärendil’s voice asked from just above his ear. “And you told me to be careful!”

Voronwë groaned, sitting up and rubbing his head. “Did I really fall asleep?”

“You did,” Eärendil said, and Voronwë could hear the smile in his voice. “You have been working too hard, my friend.”

“Maybe.” Looking around, Voronwë could see that it was already evening, and while raucous shouts came from inside the tavern, the mood out here was still calmer. Falathar was only a few feet away, having a conversation with a group of dwarves that consisted mostly of pantomime, broken up with the occasional word of Sindarin or Khuzdul. They looked like merchants, with fine clothing and intricate silver ornaments woven into their fiery hair and beards.

Voronwë turned back to Eärendil, who was still grinning at him impishly. “Did you find out anything useful?”

“They had many interesting stories to tell,” Eärendil said, “Unfortunately, none of them concerned how to sail into the West. They think it is bad luck to attempt it, and that anyone who does will go mad, or become cursed.”

“That would certainly explain my luck,” Voronwë muttered.

“I think maybe you were right - we can only find our way by searching ourselves.”

“Maybe.” Voronwë shook his head; he could feel a headache coming on. “Are you ready to go back?”

Eärendil nodded. “But, since we will have to come back for supplies in the morning, I had thought we might let Ilfrin and Aerandir come too. If only for a little while,” he said, seeing the dark look on Voronwë’s face.

Voronwë sighed. “I suppose I will never hear the end of it if they are not allowed.”

“I will look after them,” Eärendil promised.

“I think rather that I will trust Falathar to supervise all of you,” Voronwë said, gesturing to the other elf. He bid as much of a respectful goodbye to the dwarves as their language barrier allowed, and came over. “Come; let us return.”

The next morning Eärendil, Aerandir, Ilfrin and Falathar did set off, with strict instructions to go no further than the chandlers shop where they would buy provisions. As he watched them sail away, Voronwë prayed they would not get into trouble; afterward he sat with his maps for only a half hour before once again suffering from a headache. Leaving Erellont to watch the deck, he went below to rest.

He spent most of the day fast asleep, and only noticed they had begun to move when it was already late into the evening. Sitting up in his hammock, he had a good view into the forward hold, and could see the piles of crates and casks that had been newly stowed there.

After he clambered up on deck, he could see green coastal jungles passing by on their right; already they had left Mirkan far behind. He climbed up onto the stern deck, and saw Eärendil sitting there, his hand on the helm. The young man’s face creased in concern when he saw him. “Are you well? I was concerned when we came back to find you asleep.”

“I am fine,” Voronwë said, taking a seat next to him. “’Tis only that the heat bothers me.”

“Then you will be happy to hear we are sailing north,” Eärendil said. “Before going west again, of course.”

Voronwë nodded. They sat in silence for a long while, the coast speeding past, and Voronwë noticed that Eärendil looked like he was deep in thought. “What is it?”

“It is just… My teachers in Gondolin used to say that the city was the only safe place left in the world,” Eärendil said slowly, “They said the lands to the east and south of Beleriand are all full of the servants of Morgoth, and that His dark hand rules over every corner of the world, saving those enclaves we have carved out for ourselves in the north. But that city… it was nothing like I had imagined.”

“Not everything is as clear cut as the scholars make it sound,” Voronwë said. “The influence of Morgoth can be felt throughout the east and south, and there are no doubt many of His servants in Mirkan - had we stayed longer, we might have seen them. But a place like that is not His personal dominion, unlike Angband. The peoples here recognise Him as master so that they might live their lives in peace; whether that means they pay lip service to the idea or openly worship Him depends on the place. There are some places - like Mirkan - where His evil is barely felt at all. Had you asked most of the sailors in that tavern, I doubt they would have claimed Him as their lord.”

“But in the end, He is still master,” Eärendil said, his face dark.

“More or less,” Voronwë said. “There are many places in the East and South where He might find resistance, if He tried to increase His influence. Equally, there are many places that would welcome Him. More importantly, we cannot assume our own people are immune to His influence; after all, was it not promises from His silver tongue that caused Maeglin’s treachery?”

For a moment Eärendil looked sick at the memory. “Then it is even more important that we reach the Blessed Land,” he said, determination afire in his face, “So that people may live their lives in _true_ peace.”

Voronwë smiled, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Then let us again turn into the West.”

/

Despite their hope, the days lengthened into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years, and the way was still barred.

Many wondrous lands they saw, roaming from south to north and back; but still in one direction they could not go. As the crew grew ever quieter and more downhearted, Voronwë tried to buoy their spirits, remembering the desperation and madness that had begun to set in on his previous voyage as the years lengthened. Beside him, even faithful Eärendil wavered, until one day as they stood side by side at the helm he said, “We must go back.”

They were sailing on a warm southern sea, deep into one of the many-islanded archipelagos. In the distance, dark smoke rose in a huge black cloud from the great chain of fire mountains that were ever-rumbling in uneasy sleep, sending shock waves and tremors through the waters.

Voronwë looked at him in surprise. “Go back? Eärendil, you cannot give up hope-”

Eärendil shook his head. “It is not that I would give up on the quest; but a disquiet has been ever growing in my mind, and I can no longer ignore it. In my sleep I see evil dreams; screams and blood, and bright swords flashing in the dark. I see the Havens afire, and everything destroyed. It will happen soon.”

“You are sure it is not just a nightmare?” Voronwë asked.

“It is too real,” Eärendil said. “No; for now we must abandon the quest, and turn our sails homeward.”

Thus they set Vingilot’s prow northward, and sailed for the lands of their birth. With each passing mile Eärendil grew more restless, pacing about the boat, at times clutching at the hilt of his sword. At night he dreamed terrible scenes of destruction, and would at times wake with a cry, startling the rest of them. Unease and fear began to grow in all their hearts, only increasing as the coastline they passed became more and more familiar.

They passed the Isle of Balar in the dark of very early morning, and Voronwë was relieved to see that many lights still glowed in the town of Esren on that island’s southern shore, both in the harbour and up in the watchtowers. Thus did hope swell in all their hearts; but, coming up on the mouths of Sirion in the twilight of the breaking dawn, there were no lights to be seen.

None of them dared speak for a long while, and it was already long past the time when they should have first spotted them that Erellont dared to say, “The lanterns in the harbour… they are not lit.”

“And none in the town either,” Falathar added darkly.

Voronwë saw Eärendil’s hands tighten on the rail, his knuckles white.

They all jumped as a ship loomed unexpectedly up out of the dark; Voronwë was not sure whether to feel relief or unease when he saw it was one of Ereinion’s galleons. Someone on the deck hailed them, calling out in an urgent voice, but Eärendil did not stop, and Vingilot swept right past.

It was hard to see at first, but as they came closer, passing in through the mouth of the harbour, the early morning mist parted and they saw to their horror that the town they were returning to was not as they had left it. It seemed a devastating fire had ripped through the buildings unchecked; where once there had been merry streets and rows of charming houses, now there was naught but blackened stonework and charred, fire-eaten beams where roofs had collapsed in on themselves in the blaze. Where the houses had been made only of wood, there was little left save sorry piles of ash. No sound disturbed the air save the cries of seabirds and the ever-present slap of the waves against the stone quays; the town was silent as a graveyard.

Falathar was the first one to break out of his horrified stupor, giving a warning cry. Voronwë jumped, and realised Eärendil’s hands had gone slack on the helm; he had to knock him aside and swiftly turn Vingilot into the wind to arrest their speed and prevent them crashing headlong into the harbour walls.

The near-miss roused them all enough to get the ship under control and bring her in properly to her mooring - but when Ilfrin scrambled up the ladder first and onto the quay, he quickly cried out in alarm. “What is it?” Voronwë demanded, charging up the ladder after him.

“On the ground- that is-”

Ilfrin was pointing at several dark smudges on the stones, his face ashen; once he caught sight of them, Voronwë had no need of an explanation.

There was only one thing those black stains could be.

Alarm bells began to ring in his head, and he drew his sword. “Everyone, get your wea-”

Before he finished, a figure rushed past him, almost knocking him over in their haste. When he caught his balance he saw that it was Eärendil, running like the wind away from them down the quay, heedless of any danger. “Eärendil! Wait!” Voronwë yelled, but the young man seemed not to hear him at all. Cursing and frantic, he shouted at the others to grab their weapons and follow behind before sprinting after him.

There was, of course, only one place he could be going; their house on the quayside. Voronwë followed in his wake, a sick fear beginning to eat at his heart. The home Tuor had so lovingly constructed for them had been built almost entirely of wood; in a fire like this-

He heard Eärendil’s wail before he saw the house. In fact, it took him a moment to identify where the house had even stood, so little now remained. Most of it had turned to ash, leaving only a few long, blackened beams, split and half-destroyed in the wreckage; the stone foundation walls were scorched and half-collapsed, their bricks cracked in the heat.

Eärendil stood in the centre of the carnage, reeling as if he had taken a physical blow; in another second he collapsed to his knees, letting out another keening wail.

Voronwë felt the sound echo in his own chest, shock reverberating around and around, like his mind was being flattened under an avalanche of pain and heartbreak. He staggered forward a few steps before also going to his knees, gripping blindly at the wreckage to keep from falling over completely. He wanted to scream, wanted to howl at the heavens until his throat was raw with it, until all the pain caged inside his chest was set free - but all that came out was a small, pained noise, like the pathetic whimper of a dying animal.

He knelt in a deadened stupor for a long time, hearing and seeing nothing; through the haze he heard only Idril’s voice in his head saying, _The blows keep falling, and each one seems to hit harder than the last._

Fate, it seemed, would not be satisfied until it had ripped every last precious thing out of Voronwë’s hands.

After what seemed to be hours, he finally thought the shape of the piece of blackened wood he leant on was familiar, and examined it more closely. It was another blow to his already fragile heart when he realised it was the wooden eagle that had crowned the house’s ridgeline, charred and half-eaten by flames, still missing that chunk out of his beak.

Voronwë let his forehead fall against the blackened eagle’s, and cried with ugly, wrenching sobs.

He was finally roused by a hand shaking his shoulder, reluctant and tentative. “Cousin,” Ilfrin’s voice said - and Voronwë marked how it wobbled, even on that one word, “Cousin, I am sorry, but- Aerandir, he- we need your help-”

Voronwë took a big, gasping breath and forced the sobs down, wiping roughly at his eyes. “What has happened?”

“Aerandir wants to search for his parents, but we cannot tell if it is safe. Also, Lord Eärendil is…” Ilfrin trailed off uneasily, and then just nodded to something behind Voronwë’s back.

Turning, Voronwë could see that Eärendil was still on his hands and knees, now scrabbling through the ash and debris with his bare hands, actions frantic, muttering under his breath. For a moment Voronwë could not think what he was doing; then he came to a sickening realisation. “Wait here,” he told Ilfrin, and then went over.

Eärendil jumped when Voronwë clasped his shoulders, and for a moment tensed, as if he were going to throw a punch. Voronwë squeezed his hands and forced his voice to be soothing as he said, “Eärendil, stop a moment. Think.” When Eärendil turned wild, grief-stricken eyes on him, Voronwë continued, “If the town was under attack, the guards would have tried to escape with Elwing and the boys first. It is very likely they sailed to Balar, or-” Voronwë was suddenly struck by a realisation. “That galleon in the bay!”

Eärendil seemed to guess what he was thinking, and his eyes lit up with hope. “Come- we must sail out-” he babbled, jumping to his feet.

Angry shouts interrupted their moment of excitement. With a lurch, Voronwë remembered what Ilfrin had said about Aerandir; turning, he found that it was indeed Aerandir who was shouting, and seemed to be being held back by Erellont and Falathar.

“I cannot leave them!” he cried, voice overflowing with anguish. “If they are trapped- or-”

“We still do not know who or what caused this destruction,” Erellont said. He was clearly trying to be soothing, but his voice and mien were tense, his eyes darting about all over the place. “If this was the work of the Enemy’s forces, we cannot go wandering off into the town by ourselves.”

Voronwë took the hand Eärendil offered him and climbed unsteadily to his feet. “What is wrong?”

Aerandir’s eyes were wild with fear and anxiety as he turned to Voronwë. “My parents- I must find them, my lord-”

Voronwë felt that same desire reflected in his own heart, to know who was safe, but equally he could not bear the thought of Aerandir rushing headlong into danger and dying needlessly. “Let us first see-”

“My lord?”

The voice was new, not one of their own; they all jumped, turning with hands on weapons, but they saw only a thin, rather bedraggled looking figure coming toward them from the direction of the beach. Voronwë squinted his eyes, and after a second he said, “…Lirion?”

For a second the old fisherman tried to smile in greeting, but then gave up with a shake of his head. “We had all so hoped you were still alive. And now you have come back to this.” His voice was a croaky rasp, and as he came closer Voronwë could see his clothes were torn and soot-stained.

The six of them crowded around him, and Voronwë asked urgently, “Lirion, what _happened_? Did the orc packs finally-”

Lirion spat off to the side, his face growing dark. “This wasn’t orcs.”

Instantly, Voronwë felt cold to the core. If their attacker had not been Morgoth’s army, then there was only one other party who could be behind the destruction. “They… they did, all this?”

“Aye.” Lirion gave several deep, wracking coughs, and for a moment seemed to wobble on his feet; hastily Ilfrin and Falathar caught his shoulders and helped him over to a bench at the edge of the quay.

“Are you well?” Voronwë asked, offering him his waterskin.

“Been better,” Lirion said, before taking several long pulls from the waterskin. “I inhaled a lot of smoke.” He wiped his mouth, cleared his throat, winced, then began his tale. “They came upon us in the darkness of early morning, not two days ago. The gates were breached quickly - I know not how - and the fight was soon in the streets. The common people got caught between the two forces, or took up arms themselves when the guards fell. I do not think anyone intended to start the fire - it consumed as many of their men as it did ours - but once it caught and spread, it was pandemonium.”

Voronwë swallowed, a sick feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. It was the height of midsummer, and it had not rained in days; all the wooden houses, baked in the summer sun, must have gone up like torches.

“We took as many people as we could out to sea in the fishing fleet, but there were only so many we could squeeze on each boat,” Lirion said, looking dejectedly down at his hands. “Then the fighting started on the quays…” He huffed out a humourless laugh. “I spent so long arguing with that blasted Andaer over fishing rights, thought he was the scum of the earth, but what do you know? He stayed on the quays to push us off, took a sword through the chest to help us get away…” Lirion subsided into silence, several silent tears slipping down his face.

Eärendil could not hold himself back any more, and he begged, “Lirion- Elwing, and our sons-”

The flash of anguish across Lirion’s face was unmistakable, and it struck like a hammer blow to Voronwë’s heart. “My lord- your sons-”

“Where are they?” Eärendil asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

Lirion swallowed. “I do not know for sure, but many say they saw them- say they were taken captive by the Sons of Fëanor-”

Eärendil let out a sharp breath as if he had been struck, but said nothing more than, “Elwing?”

A strange expression came onto Lirion’s face, and he turned his head to look out across the water. “The Lady Elwing… my lord, it was the strangest thing I have ever seen in my life; I would not have believed my own eyes, nor dared to tell my lord about it, had the many others beside me not seen the very same thing. Lady Elwing, she… she was pursued, and in her desperation threw herself from the end of the quay-” Eärendil cried out, and Lirion hastened to add, “But she did not die! No, as she touched the waves, there came a huge flash of white light; and when our eyes recovered, we saw she had taken the form of a great white bird, the Silmaril shining upon her breast!”

For a moment they all stared at him in confusion. “What?” Voronwë asked, completely taken aback. “You saw her transform into a _bird_?” He almost wanted to add, _Are you sure you did not hit your head?_

“I know how it sounds, my lord, but there were many others who all saw the same thing!”

“There were just over a hundred witnesses,” a familiar voice said behind them, “And they all claim to have seen Lady Elwing’s transformation.”

Voronwë whipped round, and could not decide whether to feel joy or anger upon seeing who stood behind him.

Ereinion looked like a man who had not rested in over a week. His skin was ashen, with dark circles sunken around the eyes; the shadow of exhaustion and sorrow laid over him like a heavy blanket. It seemed to Voronwë that he might crack and crumble with one well placed blow.

“Voronwë… Eärendil…” He seemed unable to get any further, only staring at them with an agonised, grief-stricken expression.

Eärendil was staring at the ground, unmoving, his eyes unseeing. Clutching his shoulder, Voronwë levelled a glare at Ereinion. “You promised you would keep them safe,” he hissed.

“I tried, Voronwë, I swear- the attack came so swiftly…”

“You-” He wanted to yell and scream, to vent the anger and pain and sorrow that welled up inside him - but there was no use giving Ereinion a tongue-lashing. He was a man of his word - if he said he had tried, then he had done everything he could. Besides, it would in no way be appropriate for him to scream abuse at his King, no matter how close they were, and especially not in front of so many witnesses. Voronwë swallowed down the anger, but he still felt it burning like boiling poison in the back of his throat. He turned away, drawing Eärendil to him and guiding his head to rest against his shoulder. “Erellont,” he said quietly, “If there are no orcs, then you should take Aerandir to search for his parents.”

Erellont agreed, and he, Falathar and Aerandir left quickly, Ilfrin trailing after them. Lirion quietly made himself scarce, and soon it was only the three of them left, alone by the quay.

“A party has already gone after the boys,” Ereinion said, his voice soft as the whispering wind, “To see if they can negotiate for their release.”

Voronwë acknowledged this with a sharp nod. Forcing the words past his throat, he asked in a hoarse whisper, “How many died?”

“Voronwë…”

“How many?”

“We… we have not yet counted the dead.” He heard Ereinion swallow. “But there are… precious few survivors.”

Voronwë pressed his eyes closed. It felt like something inside him was crumbling, like the iron core that had always kept him upright was teetering, wavering and ready to fall. “He… he needs to lie down,” Voronwë said, nodding with his chin toward Eärendil, “Can you-?”

Ereinion nodded, and waved to the guards who had been standing at a respectful distance behind them. While they came over and began to guide the near-comatose Eärendil toward the longboat that had come from the galleon, Ereinion said, “I must begin today’s tasks - will you…”

“I will stay here,” Voronwë said, and turned away.

Alone, Voronwë returned to the ruins of their once-beloved home. One fire-baked, tumbledown wall was still intact enough to hold his weight, and here Voronwë sat, looking out to sea as the sun began to rise above the mist in earnest. As the day brightened, a trickle of people began to appear from the direction of the beach, their faces grim and haggard. Many stopped and stared in surprise when they saw him, and came closer to make sure their eyes were not deceiving them. Most greeted him with soft, sorrowful voices, and in return he asked quietly after their welfare.

None of them asked him the same question in return - his own state of mind was surely obvious to any observer.

When the height of the sun signalled that it was mid-morning, Voronwë finally rose and followed the direction the other survivors had taken, up into the town. Most of the streets were deserted, the only sound the moaning of the wind as it moved ash and cinders in little black and grey swirls through the collapsed houses and across the cracked cobblestones. But here and there Voronwë saw movement, where survivors were digging through the wreckage - either to salvage anything useful, or more often, to collect their neighbours’ remains so that they might be peacefully buried.

Voronwë wandered for he knew not how long. Usually he would not have allowed himself such an indulgence; he would have gone to where his help was needed, set himself a task, helped with organising something. But now he only wandered; witnessing, he thought, the destruction that had been wrought. Convincing his heart that that the bright, beautiful Havens he had loved would not be coming back. Mourning for them - and, deep in his heart, perhaps once again mourning for beloved, ruined Gondolin.

It was a long time before he found himself back at the quays. There he saw his fellow sailors, all of them perched in a row with their legs swinging off the edge of the stonework. It was how they had sat in happier days, enjoying lunch with the sunshine, and for a moment the image was so incongruous with the destruction around them that Voronwë wanted to berate them for their callousness.

Then he realised that Aerandir had his face buried in Erellont’s chest, his shoulders shaking while the other stroked a hand repeatedly over his hair, murmuring softly. Falathar and Ilfrin sat side by side next to them, both staring out to sea; while Ilfrin looked dazed, Falathar’s eyes seemed to reflect deep, long-remembered pain.

Voronwë slowly took a seat next to his cousin. “Aerandir’s parents…” he said, pitching his voice in a soft whisper.

Ilfrin started. After a moment he swallowed and said, “We- we gave them a proper burial.”

Voronwë nodded, and together they sat silently for a long time. He was almost half-asleep, lulled by exhaustion and the heat, when he heard Ilfrin ask quietly, “Voronwë… what is going to happen now?”

“I do not know,” Voronwë said honestly.

“Are… are we going to search for Lady Elwing?”

Voronwë opened his eyes and looked at Ilfrin. “What?”

“All the fisher folk are saying she turned into a seabird,” Ilfrin said.

Voronwë sighed. “It is probably only wishful thinking.”

Unexpectedly, Falathar spoke up. “The Lord of Waters has long favoured Lord Eärendil. He might have worked some spell to save his wife.”

After a second of thought, Voronwë gave a reluctant nod. He could not deny that Ulmo was inordinately interested in Eärendil’s whole family, after all. “Then maybe she will return on her own, now the danger has passed,” he said. _Or maybe she will be taken to the place where Idril and Tuor went before her_ , Voronwë thought, sorrow curling around his heart. That was one blow he thought Eärendil might not be able to take.

“Surely she would return, if she saw Lord Eärendil and Vingilot searching for her,” Ilfrin said.

“It will be up to Eärendil to decide,” Voronwë said, effectively closing the line of conversation.

The sun moved through the sky above, until it was early afternoon. Aerandir and Erellont went back to Vingilot, with Falathar drifting after them, leaving Voronwë and Ilfrin alone on the quayside. Voronwë thought he probably ought to go check on Eärendil’s condition, but at that moment it felt like the weight of a mountain was hanging on his shoulders, and it was much easier to simply sit and watch sunlight dance off the sea.

Eventually someone sat heavily down beside him. “You should probably rest, Voronwë,” Ereinion’s voice said.

Voronwë gave only a quiet, noncommittal noise in reply. “Ereinion,” he said, “Círdan was on Balar with you, no?” In his peripheral vision he saw Ereinion nod. “Then what about Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn? I thought they were going to stay at the Havens, to ensure Elwing’s safety.”

“They did stay - but the attack happened a day after they had arrived on Balar for a week’s visit,” Ereinion said, his voice dark.

Something cold churned in Voronwë’s stomach. “They knew they would not be here. That Elwing would be alone.”

“It seems that way.” Ereinion heaved a sigh. “Of course, fingers are being pointed at Telperinquar already, which is absurd-”

“Is it?” Voronwë cut in quietly.

“If you knew him, you would know it is,” Ereinion said, his angry voice brooking no argument. He had always been defencive of his decision to let Celebrimbor and the followers who had escaped Nargothrond with him settle on Balar; Voronwë could only imagine the arguments that were taking place over there now.

“I do not deny the possibility that one of his followers was a mole, but to throw them all out into the wild over a mere suspicion- it is _ludicrous_ -” Ereinion continued, seeming to speak more to himself than Voronwë.

“Alright, I did not-” Voronwë started.

A call of, “Your Majesty!” from behind them cut him off.

For a moment Ereinion’s face looked infinitely tired, as if he were considering just lying down on the quay and never getting up again. A second later his best calm, Kingly expression was back on his face, and he turned to say, “Yes? What is wrong?”

The messenger’s eyes flickered to Voronwë as he said, “Your Majesty, Lord Eärendil has woken in a state of great distress. Lord Círdan wonders if Lord Voronwë might…”

Voronwë was already rising to his feet. “Yes. Take me to him,” he said simply.

There were only two sailors free to make the trip back to the galleon, so Voronwë took one set of oars himself despite their protests. It was both invigorating and exhausting work, the push and pull rhythm of rowing familiar as breathing. The sea was calm, sunlight reflecting in dazzling sparks off the water, exquisitely beautiful in contrast to the scorched, blackened horror of the ruined Havens. They looked even worse now in full daylight as Voronwë and company rowed out toward the galleon, the full extent of the damage becoming more and more obvious the further away from the shore they got. After a while Voronwë lowered his gaze and focused solely on the back of the sailor in front of him.

A ladder was quickly lowered for them when they reached the galleon, and as soon as Voronwë’s feet hit the deck a sailor was by his side, hurriedly ushering him into the expansive and well-appointed stern cabin. Voronwë was well acquainted with the homely wooden surroundings of the cabin; the bookshelves and bench seats along the walls, the sturdy dining table and chairs dominating the centre of the room, the bank of small-paned windows that made up the back wall. It all faded from his notice when he saw Eärendil pacing backward and forward in the cramped space like a tiger in a cage, his expression almost frantic. He went to him immediately, holding out his arms. “What is it?”

Eärendil seemed unable to speak for a moment before he finally spat out, “Voronwë- they keep telling me Elwing has turned into a bird. A _bird_.”

“The fisher folk have all said-” Voronwë began slowly.

“If she is dead, then tell me she is dead!” Eärendil shouted, turning away from Voronwë’s outstretched hands. “Even if her body cannot be found-”

“There is no reason to suggest that the witnesses are lying,” Círdan’s voice said. Searching for him, Voronwë saw he was sitting on the opposite side of the table, his expression stern.

“But who could believe such a tale?” Eärendil asked, “It is too- it really is too-”

“Eärendil, think for a moment,” Voronwë said, catching his hands. “Lord Ulmo has appeared to both you and your father, to shield you and guide you; would it not make sense if, in a moment of great need, he saved your wife from certain death?”

For a moment Eärendil said nothing, merely looking down at their joined hands, breathing hard. A number of expressions flitted across his face, his feelings hard to interpret. Eventually he spoke, and the great sorrow in his voice cut Voronwë to the core. “I cannot bear another false hope,” he whispered, tears gathering in his eyes. “Please- Voronwë, if she is dead, please, just tell me.”

“I- I cannot. Eärendil, I do not know,” Voronwë said, his voice choked. “I am sorry; I do not know.”

“Eärendil,” Círdan said, his deep voice gentle, “Believe me when I say I know how you feel. I have lived long, and known the pain of many a false hope. Do not force yourself; if you cannot bear to go, I will send someone to look for her.”

Eärendil was quiet, and after a moment he sank down onto the bench seat under the window, his expression distant as he stared out through the glass. Voronwë took a seat next to him, and for a long while they said nothing.

Then Eärendil bowed his head for a moment and sighed. When he looked up, there was determined resignation in his eyes. “No. There is only a sliver of hope - but even were it a mere speck, I could not give up on her.”

Voronwë nodded. “Then let us begin our search.”

/

The night was quiet - the sea below them calm and glassy like a great, vast mirror, while above the river of stars spread out across the heavens in a thousand twinkling pinpricks of silver light. They had been at sea for two days.

Even the ever-wondrous comfort of the stars could not calm the storm in Voronwë’s chest, or quiet the worries in his mind. Each time he closed his eyes he saw the Havens, the blackened ruins they had left behind; when he tried to sleep his anxiety would not let his mind rest, pestering him with constant questions. Was Elwing truly alive? And if so, why had they not found her yet? Would Ereinion be able to recapture Eärendil’s sons, or would they be lost forever? How many had they lost at the Havens, and what would the survivors do now? How long would it be before Balar too was overrun, and there was no safe haven left for them anywhere in the world?

If that were not enough, he worried incessantly about his companions also. Falathar was grim and silent, Ilfrin sorrowful; Aerandir had insisted on not being left behind, but his grief weighed heavy on his heart, and Erellont was distracted helping him cope, never mind dealing with his own grief.

But sitting beside him in the stern, Eärendil was the worst of all; his mood ever-grim, his eyes always seeming to see away on the distant horizon some new disaster the rest of them could not discern. Voronwë knew he had barely eaten or slept since they left harbour.

“You should go below,” he said now, laying a hand over his, “I can handle keeping watch. You need to rest.”

For a second Voronwë thought he had not heard; then Eärendil shook his head mutely.

Voronwë sighed. “Eärendil, you must sleep-”

“Voronwë,” Eärendil cut across him, “Why have you never allowed me to call you Father?”

Voronwë sat staring at him with his mouth open for a long moment, completely blindsided by the question. “W-what?”

“I have always wondered,” Eärendil said, looking down at their clasped hands. “The question has been growing ever greater in my mind since Father disappeared, and then Mother too. I have always thought-” His voice faltered, sounding choked. “I have always held you as my third parent, in my heart. But I do not know- do you-”

 _Because I was not your father_ was the true answer, though it sounded dismissive, said like that. The love between himself, Tuor and Idril had not fit comfortably into Gondolin’s regimented, conservative social hierarchy; propriety had not even allowed the young Eärendil to affectionately call Voronwë ‘Uncle’, as there were others with higher status who could more accurately claim that title. Though they had long been married in their hearts and before the eyes of Ilúvatar, it had only become public when they had arrived at the Havens, when the destruction of everything they had once loved meant people were less quick to judge the ways in which others found their happiness. By then, it had seemed to Voronwë that Eärendil was comfortable calling him by name, and he had never thought to enquire further.

Voronwë swallowed and said thickly, “You are to me as dear as a son of my own body. You have ever been thus. But, in Gondolin…”

The dots seemed to connect in Eärendil’s head. “You were not allowed to speak openly of it. Grandfather would not have approved, if he knew.”

Voronwë huffed out a laugh. “Your grandfather was not blind, Eärendil; he knew what was between us. He never seemed willing to make an argument of it - perhaps he knew that your mother would never have backed down and allowed him to force me out. But she in turn knew that Turgon would not tolerate having it all said plainly, out in the open, so she toed the line and kept it a secret. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“There were some who knew - our closest friends, those we most trusted. It always killed Idril to keep secrets from those she loved. I do not think she could have hidden it, anyway; there were some among our friends who did not look overly surprised when we told them.”

“But after we came to the Havens…”

“By that point, you had been calling me Voronwë all your life; I admit I did not even think to ask if you would ever like to call me anything different.” Voronwë winced, and added, “I am sorry, Eärendil; I had not meant to let you think I thought of you as anything less than my son.”

For a moment Eärendil seemed like he wished to speak, but was unable to force the words past his lips. After a second of struggle he launched himself across the small space between them, enfolding Voronwë in his arms and pressing his face into his shoulder. Voronwë turned his head and breathed in the smell of Eärendil’s hair, tinged with both the acrid stench of smoke and the ever-present scent of sea salt. In his mind when he closed his eyes he remembered how he had once held him as a child, so much smaller and more frail in his arms, his breaths soft and even as he slept with his head pillowed on Voronwë’s shoulder.

Pressing him close, Voronwë said, “I do not know if you wish to start now, but…”

“Perhaps,” Eärendil said, “Then again, perhaps it would be strange, at least to others; but maybe… where they cannot hear.” His voice was thick as he added, “Like you said, what I call you does not change the way I feel.”

Voronwë nodded, and for a long while they stayed silent, their hearts full. Voronwë was just about to try and convince him again to get some rest, when he felt Eärendil’s head lift from his shoulder. “What is that?” he murmured, his voice laced with both confusion and awe.

“Hmm?” Voronwë turned, and followed Eärendil’s gaze. Above them, something moved across the dark; a bright white light, coming toward them with greater and greater speed. “A star?” Voronwë asked, rising to his feet, for that was what it looked like; but how could a star move, and with such speed and urgency?

Eärendil shook his head, and as the thing came closer, the light of the moon shining white and silver upon it, he said, “Nay, it seems more like a cloud…” Under his breath he added, as if in a trance, “Like a pale flame on wings of storm…”

Together they stood in silence as the strange being approached, and as it drew nigh to the air above Vingilot’s mast, Voronwë discerned that it had the shape of a huge white bird, with a shining star affixed upon it’s chest. Thus hope flared in his heart, and he said to Eärendil, “Call out! Call to her!”

Grasping his thought, Eärendil raised his voice and wildly called his wife’s name, his arms raised to the pure white form floating high above. She heard, and answered with a great, keening cry; then she fell like a thunderbolt from the heavens into his waiting arms, plummeting down with such force that it drove both of them to the deck.

For a moment what Voronwë saw was a great bird, its wingspan as wide as both his arms outstretched, its plumage as white as the purest snow, with the Silmaril’s heady, bewitching light shining on its breast. Then a great flash of light assaulted his eyes, blinding him for a moment; when he looked again what he saw was Elwing cradled in Eärendil’s arms, her eyes half-closed, exhaustion in every line of her body. “Here; I have brought it,” Elwing murmured, pressing the Silmaril into Eärendil’s hand; then she closed her eyes and seemed to slip into sleep.

Eärendil did not at once move, instead spending a long minute simply holding Elwing there on the deck, his face buried in her long dark hair. It took a moment for Voronwë to realise he had gone down on his knees, he was so stunned with shock and wonder. He tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. After a few hacking coughs, he said, “Take her below and get her warm; she will freeze in that thin dress.”

His words seemed as if they woke Eärendil from slumber; he blinked a few times before following Voronwë’s instruction, rising to his feet with Elwing in his arms. The flickering light of the Silmaril still glowed from between his fingers, illuminating the hold below as they descended. Eärendil set the bright jewel aside as he laid Elwing down in his own hammock, and for a moment Voronwë was tempted to reach out and pick it up, to hold that holy light in his own palm. His fingers twitched toward it, but in the end, he kept his hands where they were. A fear had flashed to the forefront of his mind, that if he picked the jewel up, it might find his hands too unclean to hold it, no matter that they were not stained with any kin’s blood.

Eärendil was still tucking Elwing in, a hand stroking across her hair; his heart suddenly heavy, Voronwë turned to find four pairs of eyes looking back at him out of the darkness, each of them reflecting the brilliant white light of the Silmaril.

He cleared his throat. “It seems the witnesses saw truly.”

There was a sniffle from the darkness, and Voronwë saw Ilfrin wipe his eyes.

Slow and quiet, Falathar voiced what they were all thinking. “At least, at this one thing, we have not failed.”

They all nodded. Voronwë knew it was strange for them to stand so in the dark, and that he should light the lamps; but all of them were held transfixed by the light of the Silmaril flickering across Vingilot’s white timbers, himself included. The light wavered as if it were moving of its own whim, as if it were alive; and it seemed as if it spoke to something within Voronwë’s own soul, something deep and ancient that he could neither voice nor name.

Satisfied that Elwing was comfortable enough, Eärendil turned and picked the Silmaril up again, and looked for a long time at the bright light sitting on his palm, his brow furrowed in thought. Finally he said, “What do we do now?”

His words were quiet, and did not seem to dispel the enchantment the jewel had laid over everyone in the room. Voronwë found it hard to dredge up the words he needed to answer. “We should go back.”

That sent a jolt through Eärendil, and he closed his hand, somewhat hiding the Silmaril’s light. “Back?”

“To the Havens,” Voronwë clarified, “Where else would we go?”

Eärendil’s bright eyes reflected the flickering light of the Silmaril. “There is no hope to be found at the Havens,” he murmured.

“Eärendil-”

Eärendil shook his head and stood, lowering his hand and hiding the light of the Silmaril within his cloak. In an instant the hold was pitch-dark, and Voronwë blinked, feeling like he had been thrust suddenly out of a dream. He shook his head, and questioned, “Eärendil?”

The hem of his cloak was already disappearing up the stairs to the deck. “Eärendil!” he called, following up after him.

Eärendil was adjusting the sails; as Voronwë watched he went back to the helm, swinging it around and turning the ship. “Where are we going?” Voronwë asked; somehow he knew Eärendil was not setting their course back to the Havens.

“Where else?” Eärendil asked. “We are going West.”

“Again?” Voronwë murmured.

“Why not? Why should we not go West?” Eärendil’s eyes were feverish, almost manic. “Tell me honestly, Voronwë, do you wish to sit by the shore of the sea and do nothing until everyone around us is dead?”

Voronwë stepped toward him, raising his hands. “Eärendil-”

“Morgoth is playing with us, Voronwë. Any day He could send out an army and wipe us from existence; burn our homes and fields, slaughter everyone, or make us all His slaves. And I am sure losing two of their brothers will not have made Maedhros and Maglor Fëanorian’s desire for this jewel any less; another conflict between their forces and ours would destroy us both. Even if I could make them agree to a trial by single combat, who among us could beat either of them?” Eärendil spoke fast, his breathing harsh. “There is only one way to save us, Voronwë. Only one way to save my sons.” Reaching into his cloak, he brought out the Silmaril again. “Look.”

When Eärendil held the jewel above his head, it’s radiance grew ever-brighter; as Voronwë watched, it’s light seemed to start subtly flowing in one direction, beginning to mark out a bright pathway through the dark. He knew what he would see, but he checked his compass anyway. “It is pointing west,” he murmured.

“This time we must succeed,” Eärendil said.

Voronwë spent a long moment unmoving, merely looking up at the jewel in silence. Beyond all hope, the Silmaril had come to them; Ulmo’s power had lifted Elwing and the jewel from the certainty of destruction and delivered them, unharmed, into their hands. His intent, it seemed, was clear.

In his heart, Voronwë said goodbye to all that he still loved in Endórë; it was both bitter and freeing to realise that was now precious little. Then, feeling an unexpected flicker of hope kindle in his heart, he gave Eärendil a nod.

“This time we _will_ succeed,” he said.

With the light of the Silmaril to guide them, Vingilot plunged forward into the West.


	3. Book Three - Hope

_Book Three - Hope_

_Gondolin, F.A. 116_

_Four hundred and seventeen years earlier_

Voronwë hung back behind a thick red curtain, peeking out into the dazzling, glittering room beyond. The newly finished Grand Ballroom was awash with colour and light; hundreds of candles were burning, more than he had ever seen before in one place, making it look as if the darkness of night had never come. Every important person in Gondolin had turned out in their finest outfits and most ostentatious jewelry, all the gems catching the light as they spun around the wide dance floor.

It was one of the most amazing things Voronwë had ever seen - and, knowing he was expected to go out there himself and mingle and dance with the throng, also one of the most terrifying.

He jumped as a hand touched his arm. “Voronwë?” a gentle, concerned voice asked.

“Your Highness!” he said, hurrying to turn and bow to her.

Idril’s expression was part fond, part exasperated. “I have said you do not need to call me that except in company, Voronwë.”

“Well,” Voronwë glanced at the huge crowd just beyond the curtain, “Someone could hear.”

“I suppose they could,” Idril conceded with a sigh. “Anyway, what are you doing back here? Your debut has already been delayed by eleven years; I would have thought you would be eager to go out there and introduce yourself!”

The thought made Voronwë feel a little sick, actually, but he did not want to disappoint the Princess. “I am!” he said, “Only… there are _so many_ people out there…”

Idril’s eyes followed his as he looked out at the dance floor again, and there was something very sad in her eyes. “In Tirion we would have had three times this number,” she murmured.

Voronwë was not sure what to say to that, so he kept quiet. After a moment Idril’s expression cleared, and she looked back to him with a smile. “I know it seems daunting,” she said kindly, “But there is nothing for it but to get out there. Come, you can go out with me, and I will introduce you.” She held out her hand.

Voronwë hesitated for a second before taking it. “Are you sure? You know I… I am…” He was not sure how to finish the sentence - to tell her he was not of a high enough status to come out beside her, perhaps, no matter his relation to the King, or remind her of the Sindarin heritage that he knew many whispered about behind his back.

“You are my family, whether by marriage or no,” Idril said, taking his hand. “I have no others, so I shall be glad of your company.”

“You have Glorfindel,” Voronwë pointed out.

“Oh, yes, I suppose I have Glorfindel. But trust me, confidence is the one area in which he needs _no_ help.” That said, Idril folded Voronwë’s arm in hers, and led him out from behind the curtain.

All eyes were instantly drawn to them, of course. He knew he was dressed impeccably - though he had often thought himself a forgotten cousin, Turgon had never failed to provide him a generous allowance - but still Voronwë felt something inside him shrink, thinking that all those eyes must be comparing himself and the glowing figure of Idril beside him. Next to her, how could they fail to find him wanting?

Idril herself was in a white dress with golden trim, with closely fitting sleeves and a lot of long, flowing fabric gathered in her skirts. Her hair was piled in a complicated design around her head, upon which sat a tiara of gold, studded with sparkling rubies. A matching ruby set in gold adorned her throat, seeming to drink in the light of the hundreds of candles. Despite their beauty, Voronwë felt a pang of sadness when he looked on them; he knew they had once belonged to Elenwë.

The crowd parted before them in a wave, everyone’s faces smiling; still, Voronwë felt nerves roil in the pit of his stomach. They would all be making their own judgements - what, exactly, were they thinking about him?

Idril led him across the room to where her father stood near the throne, and they both made their greetings to him and Princess Aredhel. Turgon did not keep them long, only pausing to press one of Voronwë’s hands between his and wish him every success at his first ball. Aredhel merely nodded at him, as if she had forgotten who he was - which she probably had, Voronwë thought as they walked away. After all, he had not done anything particularly noteworthy in his scant sixty-one years.

With formalities out of the way, Idril made a beeline for a lady on the other side of the room. As they approached, Voronwë very much got the impression of a queen holding court; the woman was beautiful, with long dark hair, a full, sensual mouth and silver eyes that glittered in the candlelight. She was draped in jewels, yet somehow managed to make it look elegant rather than gaudy, the many glowing colours offset by the relative simplicity of her long silver dress. “Lady Ceutisse,” Idril whispered to him, “She knows everyone, and is considered quite the taste maker in the city. She is also something of a matchmaker, too,” she added, giving him a wink.

Voronwë swallowed. “I see.”

“No need to look so terrified; she is actually very nice.” They were now on the edge of the circle, which opened like a blooming flower for the Princess. Idril gave Lady Ceutisse a brilliant smile, and wished her a good evening.

“And a good evening to you too my dear,” Ceutisse said, her mouth dimpling as she smiled at Idril. Then her eyes slid over to Voronwë and lit with interest. “And who is this beside you? Forgive me, I do not think we have been introduced.”

Voronwë gave her a formal bow and said, trying not to let his voice wobble with nerves, “We have not, my lady, for this is my first time out in society. I am Voronwë, son of Aranwë.”

He thought he saw a flash of recognition in Ceutisse’s eyes at his father’s name; Idril followed up his introduction with, “My cousin by marriage - Lord Aranwë was the brother of my uncle Arakáno’s wife, Lady Tarminarien.”

“Ah, I remember now,” Ceutisse said. She stepped across the space between them to enfold Voronwë’s hands in hers, a sorrowful look on her face. “Yes, Lord Aranwë was as bold as the Princess’ uncle; I remember him well.”

And his father had been in despair when Prince Arakáno died, Voronwë had been told - until he met Voronwë’s mother. “I am afraid I remember only little of him,” Voronwë said, “I was but seven years old when he died.”

“Yes, such a tragedy,” Ceutisse said, squeezing his hands, “And your poor dear mother as well. But,” she smiled at him, “tonight is a night for celebration, and if I may say, you look to have grown into a man they would both be proud of.”

It could be considered an empty compliment - after all, Lady Ceutisse did not know him at all - but still it settled some of Voronwë’s nerves. “Thank you,” he said.

“Come; let us introduce you to society,” Ceutisse said, drawing him to stand next to her. Idril had turned to talk with another courtier, and for a moment Voronwë felt panicked, that she would not be right beside him - but then Ceutisse began making introductions, and he was caught up in a whirlwind of names and positions and relations.

It felt like no time at all until a note was played somewhere down the hall, and the centre of the floor began to clear. This was a most important moment - his first dance at his first ball. It would set the tone for his position and prospects hereafter; usually the choice would have been made by his parents, but he had no one here to help him in that regard. Lady Ceutisse had just introduced him to a dozen eligible young women, but they seemed to be pairing up with the young men in a pre-arranged order, and for a second Voronwë felt a return of his paralysing nerves-

Then someone took his hand. “May I have this dance?” Idril said, stepping to stand in front of him, her lips curled up into a smile.

She was the most beautiful woman in the room - Voronwë had no doubt on that score - but in that moment he knew she was more than that; she was generous, and kind, and endlessly _good_ in the most fundamental of ways. Voronwë realised he was blushing, and he stammered out, “Y-yes, that would be- I mean, I would be honoured.”

“After all,” Idril said, as she led him out onto the floor, “There is no better way to signal that you will have good prospects than a first dance with a Princess.”

Voronwë suspected he would rather dance with her than with anyone else in the room, but he said only, “I only hope I can keep up, Princess.”

Idril laughed, and the silvery sound embedded itself somewhere deep in Voronwë’s heart.

In the pale light of early morning, Voronwë walked by himself, skirting the edge of the sea on the most beautiful beach he had ever known.

There was nothing about it he could say he did not like. Already the sea was a sparkling blue, the light of the slowly rising sun sparkling as it caught on the incoming waves. The dunes were sloping, none of them too steep, their sides bursting with wildflowers of all different colours and shapes among the long grasses. The headland in the distance had a craggy, awe-inspiring beauty; the sand beneath his feet was of the purest white, soft and pleasant to run through one’s hand, as comfortable to lie on as a feather bed. As the legends claimed, every so often a bright sparkling light would reveal another beautiful diamond washed up onto the shore.

Truly, this was the perfection of Valinor; the heart of peace.

And yet Voronwë’s heart was restless.

Their goal was achieved, Eärendil’s great quest complete. Even now sparks flew and bellows groaned as the forges of Tirion worked day and night, outfitting an army that would soon march to war. The city buzzed like an overturned beehive, and Voronwë knew there would be work aplenty to keep him busy, if he but asked for it.

But he did not feel the impulse toward distraction. He had laid abed all night, feeling restless energy twitch and spark inside him, lighting along his limbs and deep in his chest - and, after a long time, he had realised he felt a pull, deep within, out toward the east, toward the sea. As if drawn by an invisible string rooted in his heart, he had left Tirion in the middle of the night and taken the road to the coast.

Here on the beach, the restless feeling had not weakened, but grown ever stronger. Though he tried to lose himself in contemplation of the beautiful scenery, he could not help the way his gaze turned ever back to the sea, to the wide expanse of water that seemed to be calling his name in some strange silent tongue.

It was a long time before he noticed footsteps crunching across the sand behind him. He turned to look, then smiled in welcome. “Hello. How did you know I was here?”

“The birds saw you,” Elwing said.

Voronwë noticed her answering smile was a little dim, as if she were forcing it onto her lips. “What is wrong?” he said, frowning with concern.

Elwing sighed. “Eärendil left this morning for the Halls.”

Voronwë mirrored her grimace. Though they had long been assured of Idril and Tuor’s safety, in Eärendil’s heart it seemed the matter would not rest. He had sought to go seek them in the Halls of Mandos, and though many had discouraged him, he had not let the idea go.

Voronwë’s lips twisted. “The King should not have encouraged him.”

The look on Elwing’s face was complicated as she said, “King Arafinwë went with him.”

That Voronwë had not expected, especially with all the preparations the King had to be overseeing. “Well, at least with the King by his side, Eärendil will be less likely to cause offence.”

“I cannot help but think…” Elwing’s eyes drifted out to sea. “If Lord Ulmo is the one keeping them safe, why would they be in the Halls?”

Voronwë shook his head. “Who can say? If they have not yet returned, then the time must not be right.” He sighed heavily as he added, “Do not forget that we ourselves have not yet received our own judgement.”

Elwing looked down, her face troubled. “Yes. That I cannot forget. Eärendil and I entered into peril for the sake of the world, and I do not regret it; but I would not have dragged you in with us if-”

Voronwë shook his head. “I too walked into that peril with full knowledge of the consequences, Elwing. We Exiles are not permitted to return; that is law. If I am due a punishment, then still, what we have achieved was worth it.”

Elwing nodded, and for a moment they stood silently on the sands. “We miss you in Alqualondë,” she said eventually, turning her face up to him with a little smile.

Wandering along the shore, waiting for Eärendil’s return, Voronwë, Elwing and the others had come at length upon the crystalline and white marble wonder that was the city of Alqualondë. Still Voronwë remembered their first sight of it, spread out glittering and beautiful in the light of the setting sun; a city of simple houses and beautiful white palaces, silver arches and crystal roofs sparkling with light as day became night and a thousand pale gold lanterns were lit all around the city.

They had come upon some fishermen darning nets on the shoreline, a sight so familiar that Voronwë’s chest had ached yet again for the Havens. Once their wonder at seeing such odd strangers had passed, they immediately guided them as to how to bring Vingilot into the harbour and secure her against the pale white quay. Swiftly after they had disembarked they had been led to the grand and wondrous palace at the heart of the city wherein Olwë and his family resided, where the King had greeted Elwing as one of his own kin.

Eärendil had found them there, and told them of his meeting with the Valar, and the judgement They would soon pass down. Soon after, a message had arrived from Tirion, inviting Voronwë to come and visit with the grandparents he had never met. Though loathe to leave the others, if it were decided that they should be banished back to Middle Earth, Voronwë would never again have the chance to meet his family, so in the end he went.

Eärendil had accompanied him, and while Voronwë had been presented to a host of family both distant and close, Eärendil had visited the Noldorin High King. In retrospect, Voronwë should have guessed his aim; he had spoken at Alqualondë of visiting Mandos, and King Arafinwë, it was said, had once been a student under that Vala’s tutelage.

“I miss you also,” Voronwë said. “Though it is good to meet my family here. I have always known precious little of them; previously I knew only what few things King Turgon could remember.”

Elwing nodded slowly. “It is odd, is it not? Like meeting someone who is both known and a stranger. I feel the same when I meet with King Olwë and his sons. Lady Galadriel spoke of them a little, and I am glad to be able to give them news of her. Still, I wish I had known great-grandfather, that we might talk of him together also.”

Voronwë nodded, and for a while they spoke of their respective families, and the wonders of Alqualondë and Tirion. Ever Voronwë’s gaze was drawn back out to the sea, toward the distant horizon, and of course Elwing after a while could not help but notice. “Do you wish to go back?” she asked quietly.

“I do not know,” Voronwë said honestly. “Here is a peace and beauty unlike anything I have known before; there is ruin and bitter struggle, hounded always by the oncoming spectre of death. And yet, it feels as if here I cannot rest.”

“Eärendil felt the same,” Elwing said, “These last few days he has been drawn ever toward the water.”

“Do you wish to go back?” Voronwë asked.

“I also do not know,” Elwing said. “Here, when I let myself forget, my heart is at rest, as it has never been before… but when I remember…” Voronwë saw her eyes fill with tears. “Voronwë, the boys…”

Her breath hitched, and Voronwë reached out and gathered her into his arms, hugging her tightly. “Ereinion will not fail us, Elwing,” he said softly, “He will find them, even should the search take him to every corner of Beleriand. He will find them, and protect them.”

“I cannot help but see, see them led away into the forest…” Elwing said, and Voronwë knew she thought too of her brothers, of Elurín and Eluréd; brothers she had never had the chance to know, but had always mourned.

“He will find them,” Voronwë promised, and after a long moment, Elwing nodded her head. “Come,” Voronwë said, stepping away and then laying an arm over her shoulder. “My horse will carry two; if we are to be sent away, you may as well see all the wonders of the Blessed Land before you go. Let me show you the sights of Tirion.”

The ghost of a smile touched Elwing’s face, and she wiped her eyes and nodded.

/

Eärendil returned to the city at twilight, and his face when he came to meet them on a high terrace above the streets said all they needed to know about the results of his quest.

“If they be not in the Halls, then I know not where on this earth they are,” he said, falling with a thump into a chair.

Elwing wrapped her arm around his shoulders and spoke words of comfort, but Eärendil’s gloom did not lift. Still no word of judgement came from the Valar high on Taniquetil, so they stayed three nights longer in Tirion before going back to Alqualondë, and passed two more days there in restless anxiety.

On the night of the second day, Voronwë stood alone on the high balcony that opened off the main room of their guest suite. Behind him, he could hear Falathar, Erellont and Aerandir laughing, and loud protests from Ilfrin, as if the three were teasing him about something. Voronwë smiled to himself as he listened, leaning against the balcony rail, feeling the wind grasp and tug at the long plait that fell down his back. After everything they had been through, it was a balm to his heart to hear their laughter again.

Down below, a figure caught his eye. Walking across the courtyard, dressed in simple, practical sailor’s garb, was Eärendil. Voronwë watched with narrowed eyes as Eärendil crossed the courtyard quickly, looked left and right at the gate, then disappeared out onto the street.

 _He is going to do something rash_ , Voronwë thought - so of course, he followed him.

Eärendil walked the by now familiar path down to the harbour, and out along the quay to where Vingilot was moored, bobbing ever so slightly in the calm waters. He stood looking down at the ship for long minutes, unmoving, his brow furrowed. Voronwë came up behind him silently and crossed his arms, tilting his head and saying with a smile, “You cannot sail her alone, you know.”

Eärendil looked up, blinked, then laughed ruefully. “You always appear at the opportune moment, Voronwë.”

“I have a sixth sense for when you are about to do something rash, you mean.”

Eärendil shook his head. “I was not planning to try sailing her alone. But I was thinking about setting sail…” He trailed off, and lifted his eyes to look beyond the harbour walls, out over the ocean. “I feel something calling to me out there,” he said, his voice soft, “The more I try to ignore it, the stronger it gets.” He turned his eyes back to Voronwë. “I see you often looking to that far horizon. Do you not also hear it calling?”

“I think I do,” Voronwë admitted.

“I cannot leave without finding the truth, Voronwë. Maybe, whatever is out there…”

“T’would be ill-advised to leave the harbour when we are already under suspicion,” Voronwë pointed out.

Eärendil smiled, as if he knew Voronwë’s objection was half-hearted. “T’would be still more unwise to leave the Blessed Land without finding whatever it is that calls to us out there.”

Voronwë sighed. “Well, I suppose I must uphold my people’s long tradition of upsetting the gods.”

“I will be glad to have you with me.” Eärendil smiled; then his eyes moved over Voronwë’s shoulder, and his expression became one of surprise. “What…”

Voronwë turned. Coming up behind him were five people dressed in sailor’s garb; soon enough he could see that they were Falathar, Erellont, Aerandir and Ilfrin, and leading them was Elwing. She smiled at Eärendil’s surprised expression, and said only, “As your wife, my ability to predict when you are going to do something audacious is even better than Voronwë’s.”

Eärendil laughed, and rushed to embrace her.

Voronwë turned his eyes to the four sailors, but before he could say anything, Erellont said, “There’s no use telling us to stay behind, my lord. We have already come all the way to the Blessed Land with you; a little further won’t hurt.”

“We have shared in all your perils,” Aerandir added, “And we would continue to.”

Falathar nodded, and Ilfrin said with a grin, “Of course wherever you go I go also, cousin.”

Voronwë shook his head ruefully, but inside his heart swelled, touched by their loyalty. “So long as you all know the risks.” They all nodded. “Very well. Then let us be away - and try not to alert the harbour patrols. I fear they may not look kindly on us leaving.”

Thus they all dropped down to Vingilot’s deck and furtively began to make her ready for the open ocean. They untied her mooring lines and pushed her from the wall in silence, her golden oars sinking with barely a splash into the water as they guided her toward the sea. A shout came from the walls as they passed the mouth of the harbour, but by then Vingilot’s silver sails were unfurling, bellying out with the nighttime wind. Voronwë had taken the helm, steering her directly out into the ocean as the sails filled and they picked up speed; and Eärendil stood in the prow, his clear bright eyes looking far out to sea.

/

They sailed all that night and through the next day, and came at length to the shadows of the Twilight Isles.

Lacking the piercing light of the Silmaril, Voronwë feared they would be ensnared by the Isles’ twisting magic; but even as they appeared on the horizon some unlooked for knowledge seemed to steer his hand, turning them toward the north. They raced past several islands and islets of various sizes, all dark and mysterious in their coats of shrouding mist, able to discern little about their shape or what might hide upon them. The sea was swift beneath them, and once or twice Voronwë was sure he saw heads break the water, saw fast humanoid shapes with hair of foam and weed flowing through the water by the prow.

As night fell around them, they came finally upon their destination. One of the most northerly isles, it rose majestic and proud above the waves, with cliffs of steep, craggy dark rock and only a light covering of grass to shroud its back. All the island sloped up to one highest point, upon which sat a tall tower of purest white.

They had seen it glowing from afar like a strange beacon, the light of the descending sun setting it aglow in the twilight. It grew ever more awe-inspiring as they drew nearer; a tower of pure white stone as tall as the oldest trees in Doriath, it rose straight as a spike into the sky, perched on the crown of its windswept isle. Now, in the shadows of twilight, it seemed to emit a pure white inner glow, and the light refracting off its surface sparkled with rainbows, making it seem as if, rather than stone, the entire tower was formed of solid pearl.

There was no need to point at the marvellous tower, or even to speak; they all knew without words that this was the destination their hearts had been guiding them toward.

Voronwë steered them around the island in a wide arc, finding that on the opposite side to the tower there was a small shallow bay with a beach upon which they could land. Leaving Vingilot at anchor with Erellont and Aerandir to guard her, the rest of them landed the ship’s small rowing boat on the beach and searched until they found a small path that led up onto the island proper. Crossing it, all of them were held entranced by the beautiful tower rising before them, and none spoke; and when they reached the end of the path, they found a grand door had been set into the tower’s side, carved with an exquisite mural depicting Ulmo and His sea spirits playing on Their great conches in His deep halls far under the sea.

The doors swung inward at Eärendil’s touch, revealing a huge round room that took up the entire base of the tower. Though the walls - which did seem to be made entirely of pearl - were carved with just as much beauty and care as the artwork on the doors, the room was otherwise empty, save for one thing; a huge gong stood in the very centre of the floor. The frame that held it was circular, of dark wood embellished with carvings, all inlaid with gold. When Voronwë stepped closer, he saw these carvings depicted anything and everything to do with the sea; waves and beaches, weed and shells, dolphins and whales and fish and gulls. Among them danced the Oarni and other sea spirits, with chips of gems and pearl for eyes. The handle of the gong beater was similarly decorated, with a sphere of the softest fleece forming its head, lying in a brace on the frame underneath the gong.

The gong itself was wrought of shimmering gold, and engraved upon it were three figures. On the right was Uinen, wrapped in her long hair, her eyes closed and her face peaceful, as if she dreamed; on the left was Ossë, clouds and lightning curling about him, his eyes raised as if they looked to some far-distant horizon. In the centre was Ulmo, arrayed in magnificent raiment; he stared directly out at the viewer, and in one hand he carried a gong beater, while the other was cupped around his ear.

Deciding that ringing it would not be the best of ideas, Voronwë stepped away. On a second glance around the room, he spotted a set of delicate metal spiral stairs on the other side of the room, leading to the floor above.

Ilfrin seemed fascinated by the gong; Voronwë gave Falathar a look, asking him silently to make sure Ilfrin did not do anything rash, before he, Eärendil and Elwing ascended the stairs.

The first floor was only one room, as below, and it was empty. The same was true for the second, and the third; after that the floors were split into several large, airy rooms, all with pure, blank white walls of pearl. Every one of them was empty.

“This place is strange,” Eärendil said, not raising his voice above a whisper.

“Yes,” Elwing agreed, “For whom was it made, and why?”

“Let us keep climbing,” Voronwë said, mounting the next staircase.

All the rooms were empty, save for the last. This room at the top of the tower once again was only a single room, though it had no walls; only pillars to hold up the roof, and delicate railings barring the edges. At the centre of the floor were what looked like two beds made of stone. As Voronwë came up the stairs, he could see that two people lay upon them; when he recognised their faces he suddenly staggered back a step, almost losing his footing on the stairs. Eärendil’s quick hands caught him from behind, and his voice demanded, “What? What is it?”

Voronwë swallowed, but he could not speak; instead he climbed quickly upward so that Eärendil and Elwing could see the strange sight for themselves. Both of them gasped, before Eärendil gave a joyous shout. “Mother! Father!”

Idril and Tuor lay side by side on the strange stone beds, their eyes closed, their faces relaxed as if in peaceful sleep. Eärendil ran over and called to them, and Voronwë followed close behind; but though they shook their shoulders and touched their faces, Idril and Tuor did not wake. For a moment Voronwë despaired, thinking he looked upon nothing but their preserved and peaceful remains; but Eärendil seemed to know his fear, and shook his head. “They are not dead; they still draw breath, and their hearts still beat.”

“An enchanted sleep,” Voronwë said.

“This must be what Lord Ulmo meant, when he said they were safe with him,” Elwing said quietly.

Eärendil nodded slowly. “Then, how do we wake them up?”

“I imagine only Lord Ulmo-” Voronwë started.

Low and sonorous, the ringing tone of a gong cut through his words. Though the sound should have been muted with the gong so far below them, it sounded like it was ringing in the room right next to them, a full, rich sound that seemed to send tremors through the very foundations of the tower itself.

It came again, and a third time, and Voronwë was just about to leap back down all the flights of stairs and beat Ilfrin about the ears for ringing the gong without permission - for that was undoubtedly what had happened - when he heard Eärendil give a shout of surprise from behind him.

Then, familiar as Voronwë’s own breath, he heard another voice.

“Who on Arda is making so much noise?” Tuor grumbled, his voice heavy with sleep. Then he let out an oof, as if something heavy had just landed on his chest. “You cannot squash your old man so anymore, Eärendil, not now you are an adult-”

Voronwë turned slowly. Eärendil had indeed thrown himself upon Tuor’s chest, and despite his protests, his father had wrapped both arms around him in a tight hug. Even as Voronwë watched Idril too stirred, her mouth opening in a wide yawn before she blinked open her eyes. As if he walked in a dream, Voronwë went over to perch next to her, and the smile she turned on him made his breath come short. “Good morning,” she said, her smile sunny and bright.

“It is evening,” Voronwë said, his voice hoarse.

“Oh?” Idril blinked and shifted up onto her elbows, suddenly seeming to realise how strange was the place in which she lay. Her head turned, her eyes taking in the tower room and the view of the ocean, the stone bed on which she lay, and Tuor beside her, ruffling Eärendil’s hair. “Where are we?” she asked, her beautiful face creased in a frown.

“’Tis a very long tale,” Voronwë said weakly.

Tuor, too, had now sat up and taken in the scene around him; he turned back to Eärendil, his eyes squinting. “Have you gotten older?”

“Yes,” Eärendil said, wiping his eyes.

“I remember leaving the harbour, and sailing out onto the sea,” Idril said, her voice slow and halting, “And then before me I seemed to see a strong, pure white light…”

Tuor was nodding. “I heard the voice of Ulmo in my ear as I turned into the West,” he said, “Saying he would take me to a place of rest, away from the troubles of the world.”

“Is this Valinor?” Idril asked, her voice filled with sudden wonder.

Voronwë nodded, his own eyes now filling with tears. To have them here- to hear their voices and speak to them again, beyond dream, beyond hope-

Idril reached out quickly and took his hand, cupping her other hand around his face. “How long has it been?” she asked urgently.

“Seven years at least.”

“Seven years!” Her face filled with sorrow. “Have you been searching all this time?”

Voronwë nodded. “For you, and the way into Valinor, yes.”

“And if we are here - you found it?”

“The light of the Silmaril guided us here. Then… something else, I know not what, called us to this place. To you.”

Idril sat forward suddenly and embraced him, hugging tight. Voronwë had not noticed, but Tuor had gotten up and come to sit by him, and only a second later he was embracing Voronwë as well. Holding onto both of them, Voronwë bowed his head and finally let his tears fall.

They stayed like that for what seemed like hours, revelling in the presence, in the solid reality of one another. Voronwë listened to them breathe, felt their warmth in his arms, and thought, _They are alive. They are truly alive, and returned to me._

Vaguely he heard Elwing say something, joy suffusing her voice. Eärendil answered with a laugh and more words - something about Ilfrin and curiosity that Voronwë did not bother trying to make out.

The five of them were here; they were all together again. If he could have that, nothing else in this world would matter.

Then Elwing said, her voice low and nervous, “Something is coming.”

Instantly the three of them broke apart; they reached for their weapons, but only Voronwë was actually wearing his sword. Seeing Tuor look around the room in agitation, Voronwë could not resist saying, “You left Dramborleg at the Havens, do you not remember?”

“Gods damn it,” Tuor muttered.

“I gave it to Ereinion for safekeeping; I think it shall look very fine on his wall-”

Tuor gestured for him to stop, grimacing, and Voronwë took pity on him.

“What is it, Elwing?” Idril asked, her eyes darting about the room.

Elwing was staring out across the sea, back toward Valinor itself; at Idril’s question she only nodded her head in that direction.

They stayed in tense silence for several minutes, all staring out to sea. The wind suddenly whipped up, sending all their hair and clothes fluttering; then they heard the crash of the sea from below, and a huge wave reared up, as high as the tower’s roof. A large quantity of water splashed across the floor - and from it, slow and ponderous, a humanoid figure took shape.

Voronwë had seen Ulmo but once before, tall and mighty and dark as an oncoming storm. Now the gentle light of twilight softened His flickering, translucent form, and there was a smile on His face, though it was rueful. “I had not thought you would all find this place so fast,” He said in a tone of warm exasperation.

“It called to us,” Eärendil said quietly. He had his arm around Elwing’s shoulders, looking up at the Vala with an expression that bordered on defiance. Voronwë sighed to himself; who could have known that ‘disrespect for the gods, even when they stood right before him’ would be one of his biggest worries with Eärendil.

“It was meant to,” Ulmo said, “Though I had hoped you would not come here before Manwë handed down His judgement.” He sighed, the sound like the gurgle of water through a hidden cave system deep underground. “Still, He has gone into seclusion now, and will hear no more arguments. The time of judgement is at hand, and I have hope He will judge in your favour.”

Idril seemed to realise something, and she smiled. “If you had not had hope, you would not have kept us here.”

Ulmo nodded His great head. “If Eärendil fulfilled his destiny and brought the plight of Men and Elves into the West, I had hope my fellows would allow him, his wife, and his companions to remain - and that you all may be together again.” Seeing the worry in Tuor’s face, He added, “And that He may grant a mortal, for the first and last time, a place among the elder race.”

The hope on Tuor’s face was like the rising of the sun. “He would do that?”

“I have a hope He will.”

“We did not mean to upset your plans,” Voronwë said, thinking it prudent to apologise.

Ulmo just inclined His head. “’Twas I who set the knowledge of this place in your heart, Voronwë son of Aranwë; how could you not follow it? The fault instead lies with me, for underestimating the power of your great love.”

Voronwë could not think what to say to that. He felt Idril and Tuor on both sides hug him tighter, and he tightened his own arms around them in return.

Ulmo looked out over the open sea, back the way He had come, and said, “You should stay here for now. When the judgement comes, you will know.” That said, His form dissolved, breaking down into mere water that slid away down the side of the tower.

Quickly the five of them agreed to move down to a room inside the tower, as night was well and truly drawn in now and the wind was growing cold. Voronwë descended to the lowest room and was immediately accosted by Ilfrin, apologising profusely for ringing the gong without permission; judging by the look on Falathar’s face, he guessed the other elf had already given him an earful about it. Given what ringing the gong had brought about, Voronwë could not find it within himself to be angry, and let Ilfrin off with only a few stern words. Then he spoke of what they had found at the top of the tower, and both his companion’s eyes filled with wonder; they insisted on accompanying him upstairs immediately to greet Idril and Tuor.

Thus they spent the night together in the Tower of Pearl. Tuor, Voronwë, Idril, Eärendil and Elwing sat together in a huddle, basking in the glow of being reunited, and soon enough Ilfrin and Falathar excused themselves to go back and tell Erellont and Aerandir what had happened. Together at last, the five of them talked until the light of dawn was touching the eastern sky; slowly, with joy and much pain, the story of their last few years came out, and together they all wept anew for the destruction of the Havens and the loss of Elrond and Elros.

One by one they fell asleep, until only Voronwë remained awake. He sat by the window, staring out over the dark sea; listening to the waves and the soft breathing in the room behind him, his heart finally felt at peace.

Out in the dark, he seemed to see a bright point of light moving against the deep blue-black of the night’s sky. He blinked, and watched it for a long time without moving. Was it a shooting star? Or a Maia in star-like form, going away on some unknown errand into the farthest reaches?

Then he realised that the bright point was growing bigger, as if moving toward them.

The next minute he leant down and shook Tuor awake. “Everyone! Quickly!” Shaking Idril’s shoulders too, he borrowed Elwing’s words from that evening. “Something is coming!”

The strange light hurtled toward them, looking like a huge moving star; as it came close Voronwë finally perceived that it was in fact a great eagle, haloed in pure white light. _A messenger from Manwë_ , he thought, _The judgement has arrived._

Together the five of them raced down the tower steps and out onto the island. The eagle turned in a circle above their heads, it’s cry splitting the air as it came in to land, it’s form and majestic bearing reminding Voronwë with a sharp pang of the eagles that had soared above the Crissaegrim.

As it alighted upon the ground before the tower, the eagle’s form changed. Now it had the shape of a man, taller than the tallest elf, draped in robes of deep blue and purple; His eyes shone with inner light, and His head was crowned with radiance like glowing stars.

Shock ringing through him, Voronwë went to his knees.

This was not just a messenger; Manwë had come before them Himself.

“Hear me,” Manwë said, His voice seeming to reverberate through Voronwë’s chest. “A judgement must be given, and in this matter the power of Doom is mine. For love of the Two Kindreds, Eärendil ventured into great peril; and for love of him followed Elwing his wife, Voronwë of Gondolin, and several others besides. They have come beyond hope, and sacrificed much, for love of the world, so thus I say that punishment shall not fall on them; but they shall not walk again ever among Elves or Men in the Outer Lands. Idril Turgon’s daughter came also, seeking the uttermost West for love of her husband; and that husband was Tuor son of Huor, who came searching for naught but peace. Though he is but a mortal man, he is spoken for by the Lord of Waters, highest of the Valar save Myself; thus he alone among mortal men will be given leave to remain, and will be counted among the Elder Kindred whom he loves. With him will stay Idril and Voronwë, most beloved and faithful of spouses; for you but once is the Ban of Exile lifted.” His glowing eyes now turned to Eärendil and Elwing alone. “You both are of elven and of mortal blood, but cannot be counted among both kindreds. Thus, this is my decree; to you, Eärendil and Elwing, and your sons, shall be given leave each to choose freely to which kindred your fates shall be joined, and under which kindred you shall be judged.”

In the moment of ringing silence that followed, Elwing and Eärendil looked at each other, seeming to communicate without words. Voronwë was aware of Idril and Tuor gripping both his hands very tightly; aside from that, pure shock overwhelmed every other sense.

Eärendil said quietly, “You should choose.”

Elwing’s brow was marred with a frown. She stared for a time at the ground in thought; then, hesitantly, she brought her gaze upward to look into the glowing eyes of Manwë. “I know which Kindred I would choose; and I would be glad to remain here in this land of laughter and light, only…”

“There is something that plagues your heart,” Manwë said, His voice gentle.

Elwing’s voice wavered. “Our sons…”

Manwë nodded His great head. “Know then that they are safe, and will be loved; great destinies of their own do they possess, and great glory will they achieve ere their lives end. Should they choose to be counted among the Elder Kindred, I foresee that they too may one day live here in bliss with you.”

His words seemed to settle Elwing’s heart somewhat, though they could not entirely relieve her sorrow. She said only, “Then I shall choose to be counted among the Elves.”

“And I also,” said Eärendil.

“Then it is so.” With these words, Manwë’s body suddenly blazed with a great white light. They all covered their eyes; when they were able to lower their arms and hands, they saw again that great glowing eagle lifting into the sky, calling out into the dark of night.

Thus was sorrow mingled with joy, and though he held his husband and wife, crying tears of happiness that they would live together for years to come in the peace of Valinor, so too did Voronwë cry for all that he had left behind, and the faces he might never see again. It was a long time before, sitting in the grass with his arm wrapped around Idril and his head on Tuor’s shoulder, Voronwë finally said, “We should go back.”

In the east the dawn was finally breaking; Arien’s light bathed them all as She peeked slightly above the horizon, appearing as just as tiny sliver of fire.

When Voronwë turned his head, he saw Elwing was not watching the sunrise; rather she was looking up at the tower, her eyes following the seabirds that circled high above. “Maybe I will not be allowed,” she said, “But I would like to stay.”

“Out here?” Idril asked.

“Out here,” Elwing confirmed. “With the birds, and the peace.”

“This tower was built for us. For you,” Eärendil said suddenly.

Elwing tilted her head at him. “How do you know?”

Eärendil shrugged. “I just do. A message from Ulmo, I suppose.”

Tuor snorted and said, “You are going to need some furniture first.”

That was finally enough to make Elwing give a small smile. Soon she was coaxed to come back with them, if only for now; and together the five of them walked, hand in hand, down to the beach and rowed out into the water, where Vingilot waited white and perfect at anchor on the sea.

/

Later that island came to be known as Tower Isle. There in the beautiful Tower of Pearl lived Eärendil, greatest of mariners, when he was not on the sea, and also his wife Elwing, who wore sometimes the form of a great white bird. Often all three of his parents would come from Tirion to visit, and the tiny island did not seem large enough to contain their boundless joy.

And often, at eventide just after the sun had set, a beautiful white ship would weigh anchor and leave the bay, her silver sails opening to catch the wind.

The ship that set sail from Tower Isle was not the same as had borne them back to Valinor, that morning after their joyous reunion; it was not the same ship as had brought Eärendil, Elwing and Voronwë out of the East. Her timbers still were white, and her sails silver, her prow shaped as a swan’s head; but now each part of her glowed with a gentle inner light, shining silver under the moon as she left her anchorage. Each and every part of her was hallowed; each and every part was holy.

Eärendil stood most often at the helm, the Silmaril set in a circlet upon his golden head, and often his father Tuor would stand beside him. Idril most loved to stand in the prow, her golden hair billowing in the wind as they picked up speed, and often Voronwë would stand beside her, or sometimes join father and son in the stern. But sometimes, as now, he would climb up to the crow’s nest and, extending a hand out toward the heavens, would feel the brush of feathers against his outstretched fingertips.

Elwing’s call pierced through the night, and beside them on her white wings she soared even as did Vingilot, the ship rising up up out of the water and across the darkness of the night.

For a moment the Silmaril flared with brilliant white light, becoming the clear glow of the evening star; then Vingilot was beyond the confines of the world, and the five of them soared together in endless wonder on paths between the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
